A New Divide
by Cardio Necrosis
Summary: When Wilson inadvertantly wishes he and House had never become friends, he finds himself thrust into a world where that is true.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer:** I don't own House. [insert witty joke here]

Okay, so I've been writing this story for two months, and I've now finished it. I'm really nervous about it--so nervous, in fact, I had my dad beta it. And he's a huddy shipper. Yeah, talk about awkward. Also, thanks to Jonic Recheio, for listening to me babble on and on about it, and offering good ideas and criticism. This takes places after Joy to the World, and disregards the rest of the season.

A New Divide

Chapter One

"_And there's the foundation of our entire friendship--if you hadn't been bored one weekend, it wouldn't even exist."--Wilson_

I don't even know why it bugged me so much. Honestly, it wasn't even that big of a deal. All right, so perhaps it would've irritated anyone--I know plenty of people who would've been furious at the whole thing. But most people weren't best friends with Gregory House. Considering all of the crap we'd done to each other over the years, I didn't even know why it bothered me as much as it did.

It was just a gift. Okay, so it had been an expensive gift that I had been sure he'd love, but instead, he hadn't even bothered to open it. I knew House had never really been one for Christmas (or any holiday really) so I'd always kept the gift-giving to a minimum. Any time I had ever bothered to give him something, I had just handed it over--no wrapping, no cards, and definitely no holiday sentiments. I hadn't expected one back, either. I had always just showed up at his apartment on the holiday (with beer and some form of takeout, of course) and handed him over the gift. He would roll his eyes and mutter something condescending, but that was that.

I hadn't even been planning on buying him anything--not that I didn't want to, because I did, but because I knew he didn't want me to do it. Then again, that was how it happened every year--I'd promise myself I wouldn't buy him something, and then some trinket would catch my eye and I would have to. But the fact was, I had been looking for a gift for Amber--she had just been fired, we were still in a tentative, secret relationship--and the book had caught my eye. Seeing as I had had already made plans with Amber, I didn't have the time to show up at his door with beer and food, so I'd just wrapped it in the colour of green that I knew he liked (simply because Julie had hated it) and it didn't even occur to me that he wouldn't open it.

I suppose that was why I had waited all year for him to mock me for being sentimental, and he'd never gotten around to it.

It wasn't that I thought he would been glad to receive something. I knew he didn't like holidays, and thus, didn't necessarily like people celebrating them--which, of course, didn't deter him from using the holidays as an excuse to get what he wanted--but still. I suppose I had assumed that he would've at least grudgingly accepted it.

What was worse, I couldn't help but wonder that had it been Cuddy who had given him the gift, would he have opened it? He had forced his new team to buy him Secret Santa presents and he'd opened all of them--so why hadn't he bothered with mine? Yet, I was certain that had Cuddy bothered to give him something, he would've been more than happy to open it and brag about how she wanted to get him into her bed.

Honestly, it was _House_ for God's sake. Why did it bother me so much that he hadn't shown even the slightest concern for me? He never did. In fact, I should've expected it. But why not? Why wouldn't he open it? It wasn't like I had expected anything in return. House always took, and never gave--so why wouldn't he take the damn gift?

The more I thought about it, the more it irritated me. After all the years we'd been friends, he couldn't even show it by appreciating my gift? He didn't even have to like it--all he had to do was open it, and he couldn't even do that. He'd always been an ass; I hadn't expected anything kind from him--which just went to show how screwed up our relationship was--but did he really think so little of me he couldn't even bother with tearing off some wrapping paper?

I knew he cared for me, but what did that mean, exactly? It couldn't have meant much if, even after using my gift as some way of pranking his team, he still didn't show much concern about what was on the inside.

Perhaps that was it--perhaps it wasn't the fact he didn't open the gift that bothered me. Perhaps it was why he didn't that irritated me. He had shown, on more than one occasion, that he cared for me, but not when it mattered to me. I did everything I could for him, at times it seemed my entire life revolved around him in some way, and despite all of the crap we'd been through, he couldn't even take time out of his day to open something his best friend had thought to give to him.

I had long since given up on him returning the same amount of affection as I held for him. I had never expected him to feel for me as I felt for him, and I had given up hope on our friendship ever progressing into something more. I was old enough to deal with unrequited love, as it were. I was old enough to either stick with the friendship and handle the pain, or leave and attempt to get over it. I had attempted to leave, and that hadn't worked, so I had decided that I'd just have to quietly stew about it, and never get what I wanted.

I had given up hope on ever getting what I wanted in regards to him.

So perhaps it was immature of me to be upset over something I should've foreseen, anyway. I wasn't blind to all that he did for me--because really, he did a lot, even if it wasn't all that noticeable--but it felt like I was always giving, and he never thought twice about taking.

It was because of him that my last two marriages had failed--nobody was stupid enough to think otherwise. And I suppose, on some nights, I had internally ranted about how much I hated him for it, but for the most part, I hadn't even cared. I would have rather been on his couch than in my bed beside my wife. It was why I had finally decided to move out of his place. I had come to accept my feelings for him, but being so near him--living with him--was difficult for me to handle. So even if it was his fault, it was mine too--I hadn't ever done anything to prevent it.

House wasn't the first man I'd ever had feelings for, but he was the only man I had ever fully loved. I wasn't gay--that I knew. I had loved my wives, and Amber, but it had never felt like it did with House. I didn't know what was worse--the fact that I was in love with my obviously straight best friend, or the fact that I had gotten so used to his personality that, unlike most people, I didn't even want to change him. I would have taken him as he was, imperfections and flaws and everything, rather than be without him. I wouldn't change him, because I loved him as he was . . .

But I didn't want to love him. Why couldn't I have fallen for someone who was less obsessive and self-revolved? Why couldn't I have loved my wives a fraction of the amount I'd loved him? My life would've been so much easier if I'd never met him, never become friends with him, never fallen in love with him, and I never would've had to sit and wonder why something as simple as my best friend refusing to open my gift bothered me when, in reality, I shouldn't have thought it wasn't a big deal. I should have thought it was outrageous--instead, I was comparing it to all of the worse things he'd done throughout my life, and how I loved him despite all of that--or, perhaps, because of it.

My life would've been better had we never been friends--I was certain of that. And yet, I went back, every time I was angry with him. And I always would, despite the fact I knew that I shouldn't. I knew that I should've been pushed past the point of no return long ago. I knew that I shouldn't have come back to him after his father's funeral. But I needed him just as much as--if not more than--he needed me.

I didn't want to love him. I didn't want to find his antics somewhat amusing, even if they were childish.

I just couldn't fathom why on earth he wouldn't have opened it. Normally, I knew why he did what he did, even if no one else could figure it out. But I just couldn't piece together why he wouldn't open a present. I couldn't think of any purpose it served.

So, instead of going home to the apartment I had once shared with my dead girlfriend, or stopping by House's which was custom on Christmas, I found myself strolling into a bar, fuming over something that really wasn't that big of a deal anyway.

Although, I suppose, I wasn't so much angry with House for being an ass as I was with myself. If I was going to be his friend and deal with the fact he didn't reciprocate my feelings, then I would have to handle things a bit better. I was going to have to start acting my age, instead of like a moping teenager in high school (I was feeling a bit self-pitying at the moment, wasn't I? Thank God House wasn't here, or I'd never hear the end of it.) Life would be better without him in it--hell, I was even starting to believe his life would've been better had I not been there through half of it, lecturing him or expecting impossible things from him. I was just as horrible a friend to him as he was to me.

I had only finished half a mug of beer when someone sat on a stool beside me. I glanced over to see a girl who either had managed to get into the bar without being checked for ID despite the fact she didn't look old enough to buy rated R movies, let alone drink, or she had been checked for her ID so much that the bartender had gotten used to serving her.

She had her light blonde hair in ringlets, and watery blue eyes. She was pale, but not overly so. She even had a cherubic face, a full mouth, and a white dress. Honestly, she looked like she had walked right out of a Christmas card--she looked like one of those blonde, curly haired angels I saw everywhere during December. All that was missing were the wings.

Without even waiting for her to order, the bartender asked for her ID. She plopped her purse on the counter and smiled at him, gladly handing it over. The bartender stared at her ID and then at her for a few seconds, before handing it back over to her and asking what she wanted. She ordered a cranberry juice and tucked her bangs behind her ear, a picture of innocence.

"Cranberry juice?" I asked, for some reason amused at the fact she would go through the trouble of being ID'd just to order a non-alcoholic drink.

"The night is young," she answered with an impish smile that was either completely innocent and oblivious, or purposely coy and flirtatious. I had yet to decide which. "I'm just waiting for some friends. So, how'd your Christmas go?"

"I'm Jewish," I told her.

"Oh, sorry," she said quickly, then tucked her hair behind her ear. "Happy Hanukkah, then. How has it been?"

"Fine," I lied.

"Are you sure? You don't sound like it." Her thin, pale eyebrows were furrowed in obvious concern. Oddly, it wasn't something that was new to me. So many people looked at me with concern or sympathy, simply because I was friends with House. It was a nice change to have someone looking at me that way without knowing who House was.

"I just . . ." I thought about how I could possibly explain my situation to someone who didn't know House. Besides, I was sure it would sound even more ridiculous out loud than it did in my head. Not to mention, I was sure she hadn't come to a bar to listen to my troubles. "Nothing you'd be interested in."

"Sometimes it helps to get things off of your chest, you know." I raised my eyebrows at her, wondering if she really was interested. Not in my problems, per se, but in me. It was flattering, I suppose, to have someone who was probably just barely legal to drink interested in someone almost twice her age. She raised both of her hands. They were thin and long, and not painted. Now that I looked for it, I noticed the only makeup she had on was a bit of mascara and some lip-gloss. "You don't have to say anything if you don't want to. I was just offering a friendly ear, is all."

"It's . . . difficult to explain." I sipped my beer, narrowing my eyes in thought.

"I'll pay close attention," she promised coyly, just as the bartender put down her drink.

I chuckled and drank some of my beer. She was flirting with me. It was even more flattering to know that I had gotten used to being flirted with nearly every time I came to the bar.

She reached into her purse and handed the bartender a bill. "Keep the change," she said, and he nodded once as he walked off. She looked back at me, after sipping her drink. "Well, I know it can be hard being Jewish on Christmas."

It wasn't the first time someone had assumed I was bothered by the holiday.

"I've grown accustomed to it," I told her, which was something I had told many people throughout my life. "In fact, I celebrate Christmas more than I celebrate Hanukkah, anyway."

"Why's that?" Also, not the first time someone had asked.

"My best friend."

"He's Christian?"

I laughed at that. House a Christian? Right. "He's Atheist, actually. He doesn't even really celebrate Christmas, but . . . Well, sort of, in a weird . . ." I furrowed my eyebrows, trying to think of a good way to explain what it was he did, but I couldn't ,so I sighed. "Well, I like to spend it with him."

I waited for her to ask why I bothered when he didn't even like the holiday. I was asked that several times by several people every year. Usually people trying to understand him, or me, or why on earth we had managed to remain friends as long as we had.

"So why aren't you with him?" she asked instead.

I figured that she either didn't care about why we hung out, or why I bothered. Or perhaps it was really only of interest to people who actually knew how much of an ass House could be.

"It's . . . difficult to explain."

"Ah," she said, as if that had somehow explained everything to her, although I honestly doubted it could. "So . . . Did you guys fight or something? You don't have to tell me if you don't want to." Her wide eyes were innocent and trusting, and I knew what House would say if he knew I was considering telling a stranger at a bar my troubles, especially if he knew what she looked like. She looked vulnerable and sweet--the type of girl he would assume I saw neediness in.

"No, not . . . not fight, per se. It's . . . really difficult." She didn't glance away or suddenly appear uninterested. She took a small drink of cranberry juice as I sipped my beer, and she brushed her ringletted bangs away from her eyes. "I . . . I bought him a present, and . . ." I let out a sigh. "Oh, never mind. It's . . . really stupid."

"And you didn't get any back."

I shook my head. I didn't want her pitying me over something that wasn't true. "No, I got presents."

"Just not from him."

"Well, no, but he never really gets me anything. Trinkets, maybe. One of those toy cars or something else like that. Sometimes."

She blinked at me and narrowed her eyes briefly.

I sighed. Although I was more than a little irritated with House at the moment, that didn't mean I wanted people thinking he was a complete bastard. All right, so he was, but that was beside the point. If anything, it was more annoying that people constantly told me what a horrible friend he was than the fact he actually probably was. It wasn't as if I were perfect, either, and even if he deserved it, I didn't like people making those assumptions. "Trust me, that's . . . That's not what's bothering me. Honestly, I could care less. He doesn't like Christmas. Or any holidays, for that matter. But . . . This is so stupid . . ." I shook my head and took a larger pull of my beer, as if that one gulp could get me drunk and give me the courage and endurance to explain something that even I wasn't quite sure I understood. "I bought him something last year, and I just found out he hadn't even bothered to open it."

She tilted her head and sipped her cranberry juice. "Why not?"

I rubbed the back of my neck and shook my head slightly. "I don't know. He just didn't."

"Maybe you should ask him."

"I did. He didn't explain; he just . . . Brushed it off like he usually does. I don't know why it bothers me as much as it does--honestly, it's not as if he hasn't done worse. It's really not that big of a deal."

"Sure it is," she reassured, putting her hand on my arm briefly.

Which, of course, is what someone would assume, had they not known who House was. "No, really, it's not. If you knew him, you'd understand."

She sighed and rolled her eyes, as if I had somehow insulted her intelligence--as if she were offended by the fact I had assumed she wouldn't understand. But honestly, she couldn't understand because she didn't know him. "He's done worse than refuse to open a present from you. Of course he has--if you're close enough to a person for long enough, you're _going_ to do worse than that. But the fact he won't open something from you, his best friend . . . It's a big deal. It means something." She furrowed her eyebrows and sipped her cranberry juice, looking thoughtful, much like in the way House looked thoughtful when ruminating over an interesting case.

I shrugged. "I suppose. I just . . . Oh, never mind."

She lifted both of her hands. "Hey, if you don't wanna talk about it, you don't have to. I just think it's . . . _interesting_ that he wouldn't open something from his best friend. Were you two fighting?"

"Not at the time, no. It's just . . . I really shouldn't be bothered by it. In fact, I should just be able to shrug it off. And maybe . . . Maybe . . ." I faltered at admitting that maybe that was what bothered me--the fact that it wasn't the worst he's done to me--on a regular basis, even. Admitting that made me feel as though I betrayed him and would practically invite her to tell me I should probably cut ties with him. My own psychiatrist told me to cut ties with him (not that I blame her--it wasn't like our relationship was healthy, by any means.) "I'm sorry, really I am, I _never_ do this. I don't . . . I don't unload my problems on unsuspecting strangers. Really, I'm very sorry."

She pressed her hand to my shoulder and smiled warmly at me. "No, it's fine. Really. I asked."

I realized she had a point. I had no idea why, but I felt at ease with talking to her. She hadn't once insinuated he was a horrible person, or tried to take her flirting beyond the cautious, friendly stage. She wasn't being overly pushy, and as pathetically cliché as it sounded, there was something about her I felt I could trust. Then again, the phrase 'comfort in strangers' existed for a reason. "You have a point," I conceded. She _had_ asked. "I'm James, by the way."

"I'm Noel," she greeted, reaching forward and shaking my hand. That seemed weird, for some reason. Most people didn't shake hands when introducing themselves; not unless they were in a business deal or old fashioned. Or selling something. Somehow, I didn't think she was old or in a business. "Pleased to meet you."

"Noel? That's a very fitting name for the season."

She shook her head slightly. "Something I _never_ get tired of hearing in December," she muttered wryly while taking a drink.

"I'm sorry. I guess you would have heard that before."

"I've grown accustomed to it," she told me, then smiled coyly. "So you think you shouldn't be bothered by the fact your friend didn't open your gift? I can see why that would upset you."

"Well, I'm more upset at the fact that I _shouldn't_ be bothered by it. If he'd been someone else, then it wouldn't be weird for me to get so annoyed, but after some of the stuff we've done to each other . . . Sometimes I feel . . . Oh, I don't know. Never mind."

"Sometimes you feel . . ." she pressed, moving her hand in a circular motion.

"That we would've been better if we'd never become friends," I admitted quietly, hating myself for saying it out loud, although of course I'd wondered it before. It's hard not to, what, with all the middle-of-the-night phone calls and insults and the drug habit and the divorces. . .

Not only was I admitting that sometimes, House really did anger me to the point I wished I'd never met him, but that maybe I had only made his life worse. Nobody else had betrayed him during the whole Tritter ordeal. Nobody else (well, besides Cameron, perhaps, in the beginning, although she had learned not to) enabled him, like I did. I was mature enough to realize that I only wondered it out of anger, but I was also wondered if it was true. Just because I only let my mind go there when I was pissed at something didn't mean it may not have had some truth in it. Had I only become a hindrance to him? Was he really such a horrible friend I should, as my psychiatrist told me all the time, cut ties with him? Was it because of him, and not my latent bisexuality that really wasn't all that latent, that I was on depression medication? Were we really just hurting each other?

She drank the rest of her cranberry juice in one shot, then hummed to herself. The lights of the bar reflected off of her pale skin, hair, eyes, and dress, and she looked almost ethereal, in a sense. "That's interesting."

"What is?"

"You said 'we.' You didn't say _you_ would be better off, or _just_ him . . . But the _both_ of you."

I smiled at the thought of how House-like she sounded. "You're starting to remind me of him."

"Should I take that as a compliment?"

"Well he _is_ my best friend, so . . ."

"Thanks," she chimed, putting her hand on my lap briefly and smiling brightly. "Look, maybe you shouldn't be so concerned about why it shouldn't bother you or why it should or whatever, and maybe a bit more on why he didn't open it. I'm sure he has a good reason."

She sounded more sure of herself, and less flirtatious, than she had the whole night. And I realized she made a sort of sense, and it sounded like something my psychiatrist would've said, had she not been more concerned with me stopping our friendship. She'd been so happy after I'd left him after Amber's death, but was 'really disappointed' in me for giving into my weakness and returning. "Are you a psychologist?" I asked, sounding sarcastic, but at least partially serious.

"Something like that," she answered cryptically, then she hopped off the stool. She was short, but not abnormally so. "Look, I gotta go, but it was nice chatting with you," she told me, placing her warm hand on my shoulder and squeezing.

"What about your friends?"

"Never said I was waiting for them here." She smiled at me again, shiny lips curving coyly.

Something in the back of my mind clicked when I realized she no longer seemed flirty, or cautious, but in fact, almost arrogant, as if she'd just won a game. I realized that I had just been manipulated--she had wanted something from me; I had no idea what--and she had gotten it. I couldn't think of anything she could have obtained other than me complaining, but I knew that I'd just played into her game. After being friends with House as long as I had been, I had still managed to be manipulated. What was worse was that she had come up to me, naïve and innocent, which was something I had done enough in my life to realize she had been doing it too.

"You came by specifically to talk to me," I stated, staring at her and wondering if House was somehow behind whatever she was pulling. I don't know why he'd do it, but it really wouldn't surprise me.

She shrugged. "Maybe I just like their cranberry juice. I'll see you again sometime." She gave a little half-wave and walked off.

I sat there, staring at me beer, and remembered her putting her hand on my lap. Quickly, I checked my wallet, making sure that she hadn't pick-pocketed me. I sighed with relief when I realized my wallet was still there, but then furrowed my brows in confusion when I realized I had an extra twenty dollars I hadn't had before she came in.

* * *

Although I was in a better mood by the time I got home, not drunk enough to be forced to hail a taxi, but buzzed enough to be extra cautious when driving, I still couldn't stop thinking about the damn present and how he hadn't opened it. I still couldn't figure out why he wouldn't have opened it, but the more I thought about what Noel had said, the more I told myself that the next time we spoke, I'd just flat-out ask him why, and refuse to listen to any jokes or accept any deflections.

It was almost midnight by the time I stripped off my clothes and crawled into the bed I used to share with Amber, acutely aware of the pain in my chest as I realized that I still refused to sleep on her side, and still hadn't touched her pillow. I expected House to call within three hours, seeing as we hadn't hung out much that day and House called around three in the morning at least four time a week anyway, if not more, but this was . . . Tradition. House and I always hung out the day after Christmas (at the crack of why-the-hell-am-I-awake) which was just basically code for "I'm hungry dammit take me to a diner and pay for my crap." I don't know how we ended up doing it every year, but we did.

The last thing I thought before falling asleep, just as soon as 11:59 turned into 12:00, was that despite all the crap we put each other through, I really hoped he never stopped the middle-of-the-night phone calls, and even if we might've been better off without each other, I suppose I would never know and so I could only hope I was wrong.

* * *

_Wilson sat in the jail cell, back pressed against the wall, legs dangling off of the cot he assumed was supposed to be his bed. He wasn't completely drunk, but he was still slightly buzzed--however, he had sobered up enough to know he had royally screwed himself over by throwing that bottle into the expensive antique mirror. Not only was he in a city he was unfamiliar with, fresh out of med school as well as money, but he knew what was in the express package he currently had in a box somewhere outside of the cell, being held with his other effects, being guarded by some fat policeman with an accent so thick he hadn't understood him._

_He dropped his head to his hands and held back the tears that threatened to fall. He kept thinking back on the physics class he'd taken, remembering the discussion about the cat in the box. Were he to never open the box, the cat could be simultaneously alive and dead, seeing as he wouldn't know for sure which was true until he opened the lid. Once he did, though, the cat's fate would become obvious, and therefore, it couldn't be both anymore. He remembered thinking how stupid the theory sounded at the time. He kept thinking that just because he didn't know the answer didn't mean there wasn't one. Just because a three year old doesn't know two and two is four doesn't mean that answer could be forty-seven. But he'd always counter that thought with, well, maybe that was why he was becoming a doctor, not a physicist. _

_And yet, now, what was he doing? Applying the same theory to his package he'd been carrying around, which he _knew_ carried divorce papers, but as long as he didn't open it, then it could hold anything other than what it actually did. As if, as long as it remained closed, then she didn't care that he'd gone and done something stupid with one of his classmates, all over a fight he'd had with his wife. He could pretend that she hadn't shrieked at him when he'd admitted to what he'd done, hoping against hope that she'd forgive him, and that he could feel less guilty._

_But he knew what was in the package, and he had known the entire time he'd been carrying it around, and it was like a weight pressing in on him, making his day steadily worse and worse, until he'd finally snapped and inadvertently caused a brawl, blushing heavily as the cops arrested him and some tall, blue-eyed guy leered at him, laughing the entire time._

_He pinched the bridge of his nose, then tilted his head back, never feeling more alone than he did at the moment, and wondered if this was what Danny had felt when he'd betrayed him._

_Maybe he deserved it. Maybe he deserved the divorce. Hell, he deserved a lot worse._

_But he needed to get home, and he certainly couldn't do that sitting in jail, listening to some guy try to covertly jerk off in the cell next to him. Mind made up, he decided he would have to swallow his pride and ask his parents for bail, and pay them back as soon as he had the money. Swallowing the lump in his throat, he walked hesitantly towards the bars and closed his eyes tightly, trying his hardest not to cry. "I'd like to make my phone call," he told the fat policeman when he strolled past the bars._

_The policeman nodded once and fixed his belt, and Wilson tried to think of how he could break the news to his mother without bursting into tears._

* * *

A/N--I shall be posting the next chapter tomorrow.


	2. Chapter 2

Thanks to all of those who reviewed, and I would like to point out that the previous chapter was accidentally uploaded from the unedited document. This one is from the edited one. Sorry if this caused any eye-scratching typos. Also, although my dad betas this, he is not a grammar person and is mostly correcting typos, some characterization, and throwing in random comments about Cuddy's ass. He was under the impression I should have her wandering around in a schoolgirl outfit. I took a creative decision and made her wear something else. Anyway, I was just saying that grammatical errors are mine and not his. Blame my education, not my parents.

Chapter Two

My eyes snapped open when my alarm started blaring and I groaned before squeezing my eyes shut. My head was aching and my stomach was churning, and I recognized my symptoms right away--a hangover. That didn't really make sense, because I hadn't had all that much to drink, but odder things had happened. The last time I'd gotten wasted enough to feel as hung-over as I did at the moment had been during the time I'd left House, not that I'd ever admit to him that I'd needed to get drunk more than once because I was too depressed to function without him.

God, I really was just as bad as he was.

I'd always hated drinking when I was upset because it only made me even more depressed and pathetic than I had been in the first place, but it did numb the pain just enough to make me want to do it. I'd always been cautious, though--I hadn't wanted to end up an alcoholic. People depended on my sobriety. But House had said he could always tell when my relationship or marriage was failing because I tended to drink a little bit more.

Perhaps Noel had put something in my beer when I wasn't looking, because one mug wasn't nearly enough to make me feel this sick. I don't know what she would've given me because I hadn't felt any different last night than I usually did, but it was a possibility.

I rolled over and turned off my alarm before sitting up, rubbing my eyes with my palms. The nauseating swoop of my stomach only worsened now that I was in a sitting position. I groaned again and grimaced.

I removed my hands from my eyes and peered around my dark room. Even though my room was awash in a sea of black, I could still tell something was off.

I pushed the blankets off of my body and stood up, feeling the sudden wave of dizziness I got whenever I stood up too fast. I staggered over to the door tiredly and smacked my palm against the light switch. It wasn't until the room was bathed in light that I noticed Amber's pillow was missing. It wasn't on the floor beside the bed, so I hadn't kicked it off in my sleep.

I furrowed my eyebrows and went over to the bed, getting on all fours. The pillow wasn't underneath the bed, either. Huh. I got up and ran my palms across the mattress, then shook my head, figuring I must have sleepwalked and put it away. I hadn't sleepwalked since I was in my teens, and even then, I hadn't done it much, and only when I hadn't had a lot of sleep. Well, it wasn't the oddest thing that could've happened, given my stress levels lately. I'd probably have to tell my psychiatrist.

Great. How would she blame it on House this time? More distressing, how right would she be?

Sighing, I walked into the living room, not bothering with turning on too many lights. I was already regretting turning on the bedroom light because of the searing pain behind my eyelids, but knew I'd have to get over it in order to go to work. Still, something felt off--something wasn't right about the apartment, but I couldn't place what it was. I was sure that had I been House, I would've figured it out right away, but I wasn't, and so I just walked into my kitchen, confused.

I took four ibuprofen and downed it with orange juice before I groggily took a shower. Maybe it was the after-effects of the alcohol, but even taking a shower felt wrong--like I was missing something, or like I'd forgotten something important but I couldn't remember what.

* * *

When I got into the hospital, Cuddy walked up to me, her heels clacking against the linoleum. She was wearing a pink, low-cut shirt with some frills around the collar, and her black skirt wasn't too tight or too short by any means, but I knew House was going to have a heyday with her outfit anyway.

"Have fun last night?" she asked.

"Not as much as my hangover insists I did," I muttered as I pinched the bridge of my nose. She just sighed and shook her head, seeming a little more detached than usual. "I heard about the baby. Congratulations," I added happily, wanting to change the subject.

"Oh, you did?" She looked confused, although I really couldn't figure out why.

"It's a shame about the mother, though," I said, then reached forward and held her shoulder comfortingly.

She furrowed her thin eyebrows and glanced at my hand before I removed it. Something about her demeanour was off, but I couldn't quite place what. "How did you hear about all this?"

"House told me," I revealed, although it probably wasn't all that surprising.

"He did?" She looked even more confused than she had been a few seconds ago, although I really couldn't understand why. Of course I would know about House's patient. "You two weren't anywhere near each other yesterday, as far as I could tell."

"Trouble in paradise," I remarked colourlessly, thinking back to my overdramatic angst over yesterday's fiasco with the unopened present. Now that I was over the initial sting, I could look back on it and realize it really wasn't all that big of a deal. Besides, looking at his team's face as I went on about 'Irene Adler' had been worth it. I hadn't realized I'd been that obvious, though, if Cuddy had realized I was in a bad mood.

She blinked once. "Right . . ." She handed over some clinic folders and smiled emotionlessly. "The usual post-Christmas Day riff-raff. I hate to dump this on you, but . . ."

"Nobody else would take them."

She nodded. "Try not to have too much fun," she said with a smile and walked off. I glanced at her backside for a moment (her really did have a great ass--sorry, male wiring) then opened the first folder, ready to start a long day of hangovers, drunken accidents, and family fights gone wrong. At least I wouldn't have to deal with any more of those until New Year's.

* * *

_Although it had been a few years since Wilson had hung up on his brother, every time he saw a homeless man he looked twice, or couldn't help giving him a dollar or two in change, or the rest of his meal if he had bought something to eat. But despite how many times he'd done a double take, there had been no mistaking the real thing._

_Ever since the time he'd seen Danny and he rushed out of the diner, he hadn't been able to get it out of his head. If he'd just looked up a few seconds earlier, perhaps he would've made it to him in time. If he hadn't stared in shock at the man on the other side of the glass window, maybe he wouldn't have just missed him. If he'd been more observant, he might've noticed which way his brother had taken off in._

_He'd told his mother about how guilty he'd felt about hanging up on his brother, and although he had sensed she was angry with him, she had never blamed him (or at least, openly and to his face) but after his divorce and her having to bail him out of jail, she hadn't been happy with him. His father and him had gotten into a huge argument, and things weren't going very well. So as he searched for jobs in the Princeton area, he drank some whiskey. Not all the time, and not enough to get wasted, but just enough to dull the pain for not only losing his brother once, but twice. He should have known asking his parents to pay bail and take care of the legal issues was too much; it wasn't that they were poor, but they had had some monetary issues and had been having problems with their bills since then. The lawyer hadn't been cheap, and Wilson had insisted it wasn't necessary, but they'd gone through with it anyway, and now every time he spoke to his mother and she asked if he had a job yet, he could hear the disapproving note in her voice when he told her that he hadn't. His life had been difficult enough without his mother inadvertently reminding him of a stupid mistake he'd made months ago, and his father dropping hints about what a failure he was for not being able to stay married._

_But he'd found a job, finally, near the last area he'd seen his brother at Princeton-Plainsboro Teaching Hospital. Someone had quit after only a few weeks, due to some personal issues with the head of diagnostics. Out of all the people that had been interviewed, only three had called back to say they were still interested. The Dean of Medicine, a rather attractive and younger-than-he'd-expected woman named Lisa Cuddy, had told him the reason she had hired him for the position was not only because of his amazing grades and nigh-flawless attendance, but because when some scraggly, blue-eyed asshole (who looked vaguely familiar, but Wilson figured he'd seen him around town before) had burst into the interview and started insulting not only her, but Wilson as well, he'd replied sarcastically and hadn't stormed out or gaped offensively at the doctor._

"_If you're going to work here, I can guarantee you'll have to deal with him on a regular basis," she said, pinching the bridge of her nose on his very first day, gesturing over to the man she had introduced as Gregory House, who was currently sitting in one of the waiting room chairs, wearing sunglasses, a large hat, and peering over them over the top of an upside down newspaper. "The only available office we have is right next to his, and you're the only person who didn't respond . . . Well, as most people would've--in fear."_

"_I have two brothers," he replied dryly, trying to remember where'd he'd seen House before. He'd been living in Princeton ever since he'd seen Danny near that diner and he'd had to leave his first wife because of the divorce, and it was the closest city with reasonable hotels, so maybe he'd seen him at the store. He'd been hanging around for a few months, after all._

_Doctor Cuddy wished him luck and walked off, presumably to her office._

_House, as Wilson now knew his name to be, threw the paper down and strolled over to him, whipping off his glasses. "Fresh meat?" he asked cheerily, blue eyes raking over his body._

"_I'm kosher, too," he replied (even though he actually wasn't) and walked off, without even waiting for House to comment._

_House spent the next month sending patients that were obviously cancer-free to his office 'just to make sure' and disagreeing with his diagnosis for at least five minutes just to be an ass. He'd left loud, obscene messages on his office phone and scared off two of his assistants. It wasn't until Wilson had had no reaction to the flaming bag of chocolate and peanut butter that House apparently grew bored and stopped whatever it was he was trying to accomplish._

* * *

House hadn't poked his head in and said something ludicrous as his version of a greeting (such as, 'your tie is hideous' or 'feed me') when he managed to drag himself to work. In fact, he hadn't even told me what he wanted for lunch. It was unusual that he hadn't said anything, but not so unusual that it bothered me. So I didn't look for him or worry about him as I trudged down to the cafeteria.

It didn't surprise me that he ambled into the lunchroom, leaning heavily on his cane, only a minute or so after I had gotten in line. There were only a few people in front of me, and House came behind me, his blue eyes flicking over my body quickly.

"How late were you up last night?" I asked, thinking over the fact he hadn't called at three in the morning demanding to be taken to an all-night diner. I hoped I hadn't pissed him off yesterday--I mean, the last time we'd skipped the post-Christmas dinner was when Tritter was making things . . . difficult.

He blinked at me. "Not as late as you, apparently," he commented, gesturing quickly at my eyes. I had seen the bags under them when I brushed my teeth. Either I was getting sick, or getting old. Neither of them really made me feel much better.

"Not as late as you'd think," I promised, then grabbed three ice cream sandwiches--one for him and two for me, which I knew would mostly like be two for him and one for me, unless he was in a good mood, in which case it might be one and a half for both of us.

"The Great Panty-Peeler of Princeton went to bed early on Christmas? Colour me stunned," he replied a bit darker than I had anticipated. He'd probably had a rough night. Now that I thought about it, he seemed to be leaning on his cane a bit more than usual. It would explain why he didn't bother calling me in the middle of the night.

"Yes, well, I can't use up too much of my charm. I might run out before I find my fourth wife," I muttered with an eye roll.

"Planning two already? Consecutively or concurrently? 'Cause unless you're moving to Utah . . ."

Well, that didn't make much sense. At all, actually. Consecutively? I shook my head and plopped some food on my plate, double checking to make sure all the food House would like to eat as well. I noticed House was also putting food on his plate, but was covering it up with cheap lettuce, looking around to make sure the lunch lady wasn't watching him do it.

The lunch lady only rung up my plate. Weird. She had learned awhile ago to ring up his meal, too. "I'm covering his, too," I reminded, trying not to sound as confused as I felt.

She looked behind me, nodded once, and rung up the new price. I paid for it and accepted my change, stuffing it in my wallet.

When I turned back toward House, he was already halfway across the lunchroom, limping worse than I'd seen in a long while. Knowing that his pain was often psychosomatic, I wondered if perhaps the whole thing with Cuddy finally getting a child (well, and their obvious sexual tension) bothered him more than he let on. I knew that he had a hard time when he was no longer the only thing in someone's life, and I pushed the jealousy into the pit of my stomach.

He picked a booth in the furthest corner of the cafeteria and I sat across from him, tossing one ice cream sandwich onto his tray. I turned my plate so that the fries faced him.

His eyes flitted back and forth, and then glanced down at both of our plates. "What are you doing?" he asked.

"Eating lunch."

"And I'm a conceited, self-absorbed bastard." I furrowed my eyebrows. What was he going on about? He laughed that fake, pompous laugh that sounded far too breathy and the smile far too fake to be real. "Oh, I'm sorry, I thought we were playing a round of State the Obvious."

"Uh, then why'd you ask?"

"Suppose I shouldn't be looking a gift oncologist in the mouth," he said in an off-hand way, then took a large bite out of his ice cream sandwich. He kept his eyes locked on mine, lids narrowed slightly.

I leaned over and opened his hamburger, taking off the pickles. "So I went to the bar last night," I began, ignoring the way his hand stopped halfway to his mouth, ice cream dripping off the chocolate slabs. I put the extra pickles on my hamburger and sighed. "I met the weirdest girl."

"Seriously, Wilson, what the hell are you doing?" he demanded, putting the ice cream sandwich on his plate, having never taken that second bite.

"You don't like pickles," I reminded, as if he had somehow forgotten. Honestly, what was with him today? I wasn't doing anything different than I normally did. Was he randomly focusing on something completely pathetic about me that I had somehow not seen? Was I wearing a green tie? I glanced at my tie--blue and yellow striped.

He furrowed his eyebrows and glanced down at our plates again. I looked at my shirt pocket to make sure my protector hadn't broken and that ink hadn't stained the fabric. I was clean.

"Yeah, _I_ know that. What's going on?" he asked suspiciously.

"House, as fun as your guessing games are, I'm not sure I'm following."

"Well you know what they say about alcohol. Makes you stupid as hell. Killing off all your brain cells and all. Is this your version of burying the hatchet?"

"Yes, House, this is exactly how I forgive everybody for every misdeed they've ever done--by buying them lunch and taking their pickles." I rolled my eyes and grabbed a fry, dipping it into the ketchup. "Honestly, it really isn't all that big of a deal. I overreacted. I admit it. Could we skip the 'I told you so' dance and move right along into discussing Cuddy's pink shirt?"

"First off, I never once _told you so _and so there will be no dance. Second of all, it kinda was a big deal, and third . . . Her shirt really was starting to go where only really rich men have gone before. Well, and me, but I never kiss and tell."

"Yes, you are the epitome of nobility."

"Damn right I am. And, hoo doggy, the stories I could tell about how loud that woman screeches, but nope. My mouth is sealed shut." He mimed zipping his mouth, the grabbed his ice cream sandwich and started eating it.

"I wouldn't expect anything less."

Our eyes met, but there something different about his face that I couldn't place. The colour was duller, or the bags underneath were darker than they should've been. I couldn't quite figure out what was wrong, but something was. "As much fun as this was, I can watch the _Twilight Zone _at home," he muttered a moment later.

I furrowed my eyebrows. Why was he being so weird today? Was he making as big of a deal over the Christmas present as I was? But why? If it bothered him enough to be acting as he was, why had it taken him a year to react? Perhaps Cuddy had said something . . . ? Maybe that was where his pain was coming from--the guilt over not opening the present, and me finding it out brought it on?

He stood next to the table and looked between our plates again. He grabbed his plate with his food, eyed my fries, then looked down at the floor. "For the record . . ." He shook his head, scowled, then stared up at the ceiling. "Rod Sterling would've loved it."

He limped away, leaving me just as confused as ever.

* * *

I stared at the papers strewn across my desk, putting my fingers to the words and reading over sections repeatedly. I pinched the bridge of my nose and squeezed my eyes closed. I swore I had finished a few of the files a few days ago, but maybe they were just duplicates that had gotten lost on their way to proper people.

Or maybe it was some sort of trick from House.

Right.

Sighing, I quickly signed them all, having already read them, and shook my head. I got out of my desk and left my office, striding over to House's office. I glanced into the diagnostics office to see Foreman, Taub, and Kutner wasting time, probably hoping to God for an interesting case, judging by the looks on their faces. I wondered where Thirteen was, then figured she had probably gone home under the assumption House would call her if he needed her.

I popped my head into his office door to see that he was looking at his computer. "Good one," I greeted, then walked in, sitting in the chair across from him.

His eyes didn't leave the screen. "What are you talking about?"

"The duplicate paperwork. Did you do something to the originals?"

"What are you talking about?" he repeated more firmly.

"My paperwork that I did a few days ago. I will admit, not the cleverest thing you've ever pulled, but we can't always be perfect. Not even you."

He finally looked away from the screen. "I seriously don't know what you're going on about. I haven't touched any of your paperwork. I'm watching porn right now so get out."

Something was off--he was being . . . I don't know what, but something wasn't right. He wasn't being snarky enough, or . . . I don't know. More dismissive than usual; less playful. Something. "Look, really, it's not a big deal--either they didn't get the originals, or they're going to have copies." I had already taken it as some sort of apology--albeit an immature one. It was annoying, yes, but in an endearing way.

Endearing? Sometimes I could be really pathetic.

"I'm trying to see how deep this girl can fist her lover Frau the Eyebrow, so really, _get out."_

Sighing, I stood out of my chair and left his office, rolling my eyes.

* * *

A/N--No offence meant towards Utah.


	3. Chapter 3

Sorry for the long wait between updates. I was sick and could hardly get out of bed, let alone post fic. Hopefully this chapter makes up for it.

Chapter Three

_Wilson pinched the bridge of his nose, regretting all the beer he'd had the night before. He hadn't been depressed, or even celebrating. Honestly, it had been awhile since he'd needed a good explanation to drink. It wasn't that he was an alcoholic, but recently, he'd been drinking more. After a long day at work, it was an understatement to say he was stressed. Stressed and bored was never a great combination, and even though he'd fully paid back his parents for the legal fees and being bailed out, he still felt awkward around them._

_But all that had changed--he'd finally met the girl of his dreams. He wouldn't make the same mistake he'd made with his first wife. His family was, understandably, a little wary, but they didn't see what he and Bonnie had. He supposed that was mostly his fault, really--ever since he'd been arrested and divorced, he'd felt like every time he saw his family, all they could see was what a failure he was, and especially after having admitted he'd hung up on Danny . . . He'd been avoiding his family so much that they hadn't even known he was dating someone until he called them to tell them they were engaged._

_Even though his younger brother, Peter, had refused to be his best man, he knew that when he got married and proved to his family he wasn't a screw up, then everything would be fine. Bonnie understood that he was a doctor and that he wouldn't be able to spend a lot of time at home. His family was angry with him for his mistakes and for avoiding them, but now that he was making up for his past, he'd be able to look his family in the eye without feeling ashamed._

_Once he got over the stress of the wedding, he would be able to relax. But after the stressful day of having two of his cancer patients die and having absolutely nothing to do since Bonnie was busy, he'd gone out for a drink, which was becoming more of a habit than anything really. It wasn't that he got drunk often--he usually just got buzzed--but last night, he wasn't ashamed to admit he'd gotten plastered. There was nothing wrong with getting drunk every now and again._

_He glanced over the financial paperwork and had to reread the same sentence three times before he comprehended it. He'd taken two ibuprofen and so his headache was mostly gone, but he still felt groggy._

_The door opened without any warning knocks and he looked up, confused, but when he saw House, he rolled his eyes, no longer surprised. "Did you need something?" he asked, sounding polite although he really couldn't care less._

_House strolled over to his desk and plopped into the chair, drumming his fingers against his thighs. He was wearing blue jeans and an AC/DC rock tee. Wilson tried to remember the last time House had actually looked like a doctor. "So," House greeted, smirking evilly._

_Wilson shook his head and looked back down at the paperwork. Other than the first month, the diagnostician had kept his pranks to a minimum, and they honestly didn't talk to each other much. Every now and again they got into dry, sarcastic banter, but other than that, they only talked if they needed to talk to the other about a patient. As far as Wilson was concerned, House was just another employee, and seeing as he knew he was currently working with a patient, he figured he was there to talk about cancer or some other such business-like matters._

"_Are you going to stare at me all day or are you actually going to speak sometime soon?" Wilson asked a few moments later when the drumming of his co-worker's fingers had started to unnerve him._

"_You're getting married."_

_Wilson's pen was poised above the signature line, but his hand had stilled. He hadn't told House he was getting married, but he wasn't at all surprised he'd found out. Their offices were beside each other, after all. "Really? You truly are a font of knowledge. Thanks for informing me--I certainly wouldn't have known otherwise." He quickly signed his name, shaking his head the slightest bit, before carefully folding his hands together and staring across his desk at House, as if he were a patient instead of a doctor._

"_I'm sure my invitation got lost in the mail," House dismissed with a wave of his hand while he rolled his eyes._

"_On account of the fact I didn't put a stamp on it, write one out, or in any way invite you to it at all, then sure. It _probably_ got lost in the mail."_

"_I was giving you an out. At least you're honest."_

"_And you value honesty."_

"_Yup. I'm just surprised that it's taken a hot young doctor like you this long to get hitched."_

"_I've been married before," he revealed, not quite sure why he was handing someone like House such ammunition. He didn't particularly like the guy, but he knew how devious he could be. Everybody at the hospital did. Still, he figured that it wasn't that big of a thing to admit._

"_Really?" He narrowed his eyes and tapped his bottom lip with his index finger._

_House looked more interested that Wilson had expected him to be. "We divorced a few months before I started working here."_

_The diagnostician hummed, and his blue eyes darkened suddenly, trailing over Wilson's face. It was starting to make him uncomfortable. "Why?"_

"_That's not your business."_

"_Interesting." Wilson furrowed his brows. What was so interesting about that? "It's been long enough for you to find someone else to promise to spend the rest of your life with, and it's still not my business? So it's your fault." His index finger slipped away from his mouth and he smirked slightly. "You cheated."_

"_Get out of my office," he snapped a bit more harshly than he had intended._

"_Does your One Twu Wuv know?" he asked, batting his eyelids like an innocent schoolgirl._

"_I said get out."_

_House didn't look like a man who had just been kicked out of an office. He was smiling and his eyes were glittering, as if he were a little boy being handed a lollipop. "Anyway, that's not why I dropped by. I could care less about Little Wilson's wandering eyes. I'm here to talk . . ." He leaned back on of his chair, then plopped his ankles up on Wilson's desk, interlocking his hands behind his head. ". . . about the bachelor party."_

"_I'm not having one," he stated._

_House's mouth dropped open comically. "What? How can you . . . You're getting married and you're not . . ."_

"_I had a bachelor party last time. It was completely and utterly pointless. Three hours of sitting at a cheap bar, drinking beer, with strippers swinging around poles. I can go to a strip club any time that I like; I don't need a wedding as an excuse to go."_

"_That's because I didn't throw it. Now you have me; the whole thing can be remedied."_

"_Bachelor parties are thrown by friends, not people I can hardly stand."_

_House's hand flew to his chest. "You wound me with your words!" He wiped an imaginary tear from his face, then put his hand behind his head again to join the other. "If you loved her, you'd have a bachelor party."_

"_Please explain to me how that makes any sense."_

"_If you really loved her, you wouldn't be afraid of screwing up. Face it--you're afraid of having another bachelor party 'cause you don't wanna get down and dirty with the strippers. If you loved your future wife as much as you're pretending to, you wouldn't have to worry about getting sidetracked. You've already screwed up your last marriage by putting your . . . _finger_ in too many pies. Prove to me, and what's-her-name, that you can have sexy women prancing around you with nothing on, spoon-feeding you vodka flavoured ice cream, and not diddle her into . . ."_

_Wilson had no idea why House trailed off when he did, but he was glad of it._

"_Ice cream?" House whispered, his face falling as he settled the chair on all fours, eyes ticking back and forth as if he were reading something. He stood up suddenly and left the office in a hurry, the door slamming shut behind him loudly._

_Wilson stared at the door for a long moment, then shook his head and returned to his paperwork._

* * *

It wasn't until I went into the kitchen that I noticed what was wrong with the apartment--Amber's things were gone. I knew that it wasn't healthy to be surrounded by reminders of my dead girlfriend, but . . . I couldn't help it.

Well, House had hit the nail on the head when he'd said I'd always had a hard time letting go of things. If House hadn't pushed me through pranks to finalize my divorce with Julie, I never would've signed the papers. If I got rid of everything Amber owned, then she was truly gone--truly dead.

I had loved her so much and to get rid of her things felt like a betrayal of some kind; as if her death hadn't meant anything. As if her dying in my arms had been entirely pointless.

I hadn't put her pillow away in my sleep the night before--not unless I got rid of everything she owned in my sleep as well. It didn't take a genius to figure out what happened.

No wonder he'd been odd all day. He thought I'd figured it out this morning--figured out that he'd, apparently, snuck into the apartment and got rid of everything that belonged to my former girlfriend. After the initial anger and annoyance, I smiled weakly and recognized it as House's odd way of showing concern for me. People often thought that most of our relationship was me looking out for him, pointing out all of his flaws and trying to help him get over them, but he did the same for me. He lectured me just as much as I lectured him--of course, he covered it up with a thick layer of sarcasm and snarkiness, or cruel pranks, but . . .

And my psychiatrist wondered why I was in love with him. She wondered how he showed affection to me, and why I couldn't stay away. Perhaps I had been friends with him too long, but I couldn't understand how someone didn't see all that he did.

Unable to stop smiling, I tossed a banana peel into the garbage, frowning when I saw how many bottles of beer were in there. I could smell the faint, almost-faded scent of puke, too, and could see that there were paper towels stained with sick. "House," I murmured angrily, then shut the lid to the garbage a bit roughly.

No wonder he'd had some bags under his eyes. He was lucky he didn't wrap himself around the trunk of a tree. How he'd managed to get drunk, puke, and clear the apartment full of Amber's things without waking me up was beyond me.

I vaguely remembered my massive hangover I'd had, but in a detached way.

I plopped down in front of the couch and turned on the television, bringing up my TiVo list. I had an obscene amount of late-night Cinemax movies recorded--the type that tried to be artsy hard R, but ended up being horrible soft-core porn. I would admit to having watched them before, but only House would record them on my TiVo.

And completely delete my _El Feugo del Amor_.

I deleted all of the Skinemax movies, then went over to my phone, smiling at how House-like it was for him to cover up a kind gesture masquerading as a prank with more pranks.

He answered on the fifth ring. "Hello?"

"Good job, House. Don't know how I'll manage without my novella. You do know, of course, that this means war."

"Wilson?" He sounded confused.

"Who else would it be? Unless you go around deleting _El Feugo del Amor_ on everybody's TiVo list who has the audacity to watch it."

"I don't even have a key to your apartment," he stated.

"And that's stopped you from breaking and entering before?"

"Touché."

I rolled my eyes and wandered back over to my couch, plopping onto the cushions, flipping through the channels idly. "Oh, and thanks for all the late-night Cinemax, but if I wanted porn, I'd just borrow yours."

"Right . . . Do you know what time it is?"

I glanced at my watch. "11:30. Why? You weren't sleeping." It wasn't a question. I knew that he wouldn't be.

"What's going on with you?"

"I think I made that clear when I called."

"Well, I just _hate_ to cut this conversation short," he said, sarcasm dripping from his tone so thickly I could practically hear him rolling his eyes, "but I'm bored, a bit more than a little confused, and starving, so feel free to explain yourself before I hang up."

I rolled my eyes. I knew a demand to be taken to an all-night diner when I heard one. "I'll be over in a minute," I told him.

The silence on the other end was only broken by the dull sounds of the television in the background, so vague and quiet I couldn't tell what gender the speaker was. I heard a sharp intake of breath, and waited for him to say something else, but instead I heard the audible click, signalling that he'd just hung up on me.

I stared at the phone blankly for a second before getting off the couch and hanging it up.

* * *

I pulled my car key out of the ignition and it hit me. House's apartment key was gone. I furrowed my brows and looked at each key, thinking of which lock it went to, just to make sure. I had my Volvo keys, my apartment keys, the key to my locker, and few keys all related to the hospital (like the one to my office) but that particular one was gone. It didn't make sense that House would steal it, seeing as he often told me to use my key when I came over. I could see him stealing any of my other keys, but that one? No.

It had probably fallen off my key-ring at some point today. I would look for it later.

I walked up to his door and knocked on it a few times, thinking of the closest diner or bar that had decent food.

I heard him shuffling around on the other side of the door, and a moment later the door opened wide, revealing House. He was only wearing his thin pyjama pants and a white undershirt, his hair mussed up and smelling faintly of scotch, and although it was somewhat endearing, there was something off about the way he stared at me.

"What are you doing here?" He stood in the doorframe right in front of me so I couldn't walk past him, and the apartment was too dark for me to see why, but there was something wrong.

"You said you were hungry. So are you going to go wearing that, or do you want to throw on something closely resembling clothes before we head out?"

He slammed the door shut in my face and I jumped at the noise. I stood there for a second, realizing that my mouth was open and that I probably looked like a stunned fish. I hurriedly thought over the day's events, wondering if maybe his odd behaviour hadn't been borne out of his little pranks but maybe over something I'd done to irritate him.

Seeing as House had apparently denied hanging out with me and standing there like an idiot wasn't going to help matters any, I turned around and walked down the stairs and towards the car. I was halfway down the walk when I heard the familiar uneven gait behind me and he walked on past. Apparently he'd gone inside to put on his converse and grab his cane.

I followed him to the car and got into the driver's seat. When he plopped into the passenger seat beside me, he openly glared at me, and it unnerved me.

"You're paying," he insisted as I twisted my key into the ignition, and now that we were closer together in a smaller space, I could smell the scotch more strongly.

It wasn't until I backed away from the curb that the streetlamp filtered in through the windshield and the shadows shifted over his body that I noticed just how thin he looked. His cheekbones were sharper than I thought they had been, and his skin was paler than I remembered.

I focused on the road instead, figuring it was just the way the light had hit him.

* * *

I took him to the diner we usually ended up at, not at all surprised when we had the same waitress we always had. When I greeted her, she had seemed surprised, but then again, we hadn't been there for a month.

He sat in the booth furthest from the entrance, in the darkest corner, and I followed him, sitting on the other side. He stared at me from across the table, but when I went to look him in the eye, his eyes ticked to the menu the waitress had given us. It had taken him forever to pick something to eat, as if he had been considering getting something other than the usual--or as if he'd never seen the menu before--and any time I tried to start up a conversation with him, he quickly ended it and gave me a suspicious look.

We ate in awkward silence, although I had no idea why it felt that way. We weren't doing anything we hadn't done a thousand times before. All of our conversations were short, and our waitress seemed to have noticed because she hadn't stopped by for a small chat, and hadn't even asked how our days had been, like she usually did.

A few minutes into our dinner, he snatched a fry off of my plate quickly and met my eyes challengingly.

I took a sip of my drink as he chewed my fry, his eyes never leaving mine.

"Payback for the pickles," he said when he swallowed, as if he needed to explain stealing my food.

"Yes, considering you mourned the loss of them for hours on end," I replied dryly.

He took another fry, slower than he did last time; almost hesitantly. After he swallowed, he gestured at my drink. "Always figured you for the girly drinks, but I'm starting to wonder if you even have penis."

"Iced tea is not girly."

"Oh, please. You're practically swimming in estrogen. And the way you're sucking on that straw, I'm thinking you've got practice sucking on something else."

"Am I that transparent? Damn. What gave it away? The slight flick of my tongue, or the way I eyed you as I did it?"

"Well, the fact that you practically forced me on this date is what tipped me off onto the fact you're totally gay for me."

"Yes, House. That is _exactly_ what I'm doing. I'm honestly surprised it took you this long to catch on." Despite the fact there was truth in my statement, I sounded completely sarcastic. The best way to keep my feelings secret was to play along.

He nodded and took another fry. "Well, it was either that, or this is your way of forgiving me," he said, his voice dropping an octave so that it sounded serious. His eyes locked onto mine and I knew that this was where he'd intended the conversation to go.

"There was nothing to forgive; honestly, House, I don't even know why I was so upset." I didn't ask how he knew I'd been upset--either I had said something off-base, or acted strangely. Either way, I was taking his sneaking into my apartment and getting rid of Amber's things as, not only a lecture, but an apology. Also, a roundabout way of helping me get over something that I wouldn't have been able to get over myself.

"Nothing to forgive? Please, I don't need those sappy platitudes. Spare me the sympathy or pity or whatever. I'm not one of your cancer-ridden cue-balls."

"I'm not treating you like one," I promised, truthfully. "You're the one acting like I should be. I was merely saying that I admit I overreacted."

He was staring at me like I'd done something strange, but I couldn't fathom what. It only lasted a second though, because he shook his head and let out a harsh sigh, pointing at me. "No, no, no. Don't pull that Wonder Boy please-Bonnie-forgive-me-my-transgressions tone with me. In case you haven't used your eyes for the past fifteen years, I'm a big boy. I can handle it. You weren't _overreacting."_

"Bonnie? Why are we talking about--oh, never mind." I closed my eyes, trying to push my irritation down into my stomach. It was only because of House's self-loathing that was dragging this out. Objectively, him not opening a present really wasn't a big deal. I could only assume that he wasn't just talking about the gift so much as everything we'd done to each other throughout our friendship. We weren't so different, really. He was nicer than people thought he was, I was just as screwed up as he was, and not nearly as kind and naïve as everyone assumed I was.

"If you want an apology, well . . ." He scoffed.

"I don't--I don't expect anything. I'm telling you that _I_ am sorry."

"You've got no reason to be. So you're over it--good for you. But you don't owe me anything, so this whole . . ." He waved his hand vaguely, as if trying to pluck the right word from the air. " . . . _thing_ you're doing, stop it."

"I wasn't do--I was just--House, I don't know why you're acting this way."

"Yeah, because _this--"_ He waved his arm around. "--is completely normal."

"For us, yes, it's certainly not abnormal."

"What?"

"Face it, House, we've never had a _normal_ . . . relationship," I said, tensing over the last word, but using it only because I hadn't thought of anything else to describe it.

He scoffed. "If you'd even call it that," he muttered, and it stung for some reason. I knew he didn't like to get sentimental, but whenever he was frustrated or angry he liked to throw the fact that I sometimes did in my face.

"Call it what you like, but it's true," I said, and I couldn't help the irritated tone I said it in.

"So are you done with the peace offering then?"

"I wasn't even meaning to make one, to be honest. But since you brought it up . . ."

"Well, whatever." He downed the rest of his Coke and grabbed a fry from off of my plate. "So, can I assume you'll be taking me home too, or can I bum some cash for a taxi?"

"As if I'd deny you a ride home, House, seriously." I rolled my eyes and gestured for the waitress to come bring the check.

"Well, you never know. Some people are self-obsessed bastards."

When I smiled at chuckled quietly at his comment, he looked surprised, but pleasantly so.

* * *

_Wilson pulled his car into the garage as Bonnie clucked her tongue. "He didn't even care that you were with a patient?"_

"_Of course not. House doesn't care about anything but what _he_ wants. He's been harassing me all week."_

"_You should stand up to him."_

"_He's just a bully. He'll thrive on it, if I do. It was the same when I first started working there. He'll stop, eventually."_

_Bonnie pressed her lips together in that way she did whenever she didn't like what Wilson said but thought it best not to drag it out. Wilson sighed and lowered his chin to his chest. He'd seen what had happened to people who tried to argue with House. It wasn't worth it._

_What was going on between them at work wasn't nearly as bad as Bonnie was under the impression of. It was just irritating. "What brought all this on?" she asked finally, and slowly._

"_He found out about . . . about the wedding," he said, catching himself over the explanation. Bonnie blinked at him. "Don't worry, he won't show. I didn't send him an invitation, and I doubt anyone would take him as the plus one. Doesn't help that he . . . figured out why my first marriage fell through."_

_Bonnie put her hand on his arm. "James, don't worry about it. I know that you've made mistakes and--and if he thinks he's so perfect, then why doesn't he have anyone?"_

"_He does. Stacy, I think." She blinked at him and Wilson shook his head. "That isn't the point I'm trying to make. I know that. And you know that. That's all that matters. He just . . . Do you hear that?"_

_Bonnie removed her hand and tilted her head towards the sound. It was a thumping noise. It sounded a bit like muffled bass, actually. As if someone were having a party in his house._

_The both of them got out of the car and made their way to the door, where the music got louder. Wilson's stomach plummeted to the floor as he noticed the door was unlocked, despite the fact he _always_ locked it. Bonnie was latching onto his arm, as if afraid that on the other side she would be attacked._

_Without knowing how, Wilson knew what was on the other side, and who was behind it._

_He pushed open the door and looked at his dim-lit living room. There were red and blue lights dancing over the walls to the erratic beat of the blaring music; something grunge-like and erotic sounding. There were people he recognized from the hospital, and others he was sure he'd never seen in his life, dancing to the beat while strippers (plural) joined, shaking their breasts and asses. They were all wearing lacy bras and panties and glistening with sweat and glimmer-powder._

_Not surprisingly, House was standing on the bar separating the living room from the kitchen, holding a bottle of vodka and a lighter--Wilson _really_ didn't want to know--but a second later, he spat at the fire and a flame burst out of his mouth, like he was a dangerous dragon coming to burn Wilson's life into smouldering ruin._

_His blue eyes were like searchlights and they spotted Wilson. A grin broke out across his face and he hopped off of the counter, pushing his way through the crowd. Bonnie clutched onto his arm harder, and Wilson started breathing heavily through his nose. _

_The inside of his house was absurdly warm, with the winter air hitting his back. He doubted it was the difference in temperature that made his skin crawl and insides churn, though._

_A moment later House was standing in front of them, raising his eyebrows at Bonnie. "Sorry, but ladies aren't allowed. Not unless you take off your top. Oh, you can have your lighter back." He tossed the lighter and Wilson barely caught it, still too stunned to speak._

"_What is this?" he asked a second later._

"_This, Saint James, is a bachelor party." He glanced at Bonnie. "I told you the terms under which you can stay."_

"_I'm not taking off my top!" she refused vehemently, sidling up closer to Wilson._

"_Then vamoose."_

"_This is unacceptable!" she replied shrilly._

"_Oh, grow up. Just a little harmless fun," House whined, sounding very much like a six year old. A drunk six year old._

_Wilson sniffed. "How much Scotch have you had?"_

"_A whole tub full. Don't worry--I got three more."_

"_Tub full, wha--oh, never mind, I don't wanna know. Get out."_

"_But I brought _Karamel!_ She's the hot little number over there--look at the bows! She's got _bows_ on her panties--tell me you don't think she's sexy."_

"_You _snuck_ into my house! I swear to God if you broke anything--"_

"_Don't worry--I moved all your furniture and breakables to a storage unit. It'll be back by tomorrow evening. Oh, yeah, you'll be billed."_

"_You WHAT?"_

"_Deaf much? I said, I--"_

"_That's it. Everybody out!" Wilson shouted, brushing past House and bringing Bonnie with him, holding her close. If anybody heard him, they didn't acknowledge it. _

_Sighing, he pushed his way through the crowd and climbed onto the bar. There was a tower of shot glasses, and he tried to ignore the scent of burnt alcohol in the air. Bonnie stood beside him, brushing off her skirt and looking at the bar in distaste, as if it was covered in germs. "Listen up, everybody!" he yelled again, cupping the side of his mouth for projection._

_The writhing masses kept dancing and drinking, thrusting against the strippers and singing along to whatever song was playing._

_A loud whistle echoed through the air, and everybody turned to face House. He pointed at Wilson, and the crowd turned to face him._

"_Everybody, out," he ordered, pointing at the door. "I don't know what House told you, but I don't care. Just leave, get out, and take anything you brought with you."_

_Wilson watched to make sure everybody left and took their things with them (a duck? Really?) only somewhat miffed at all the drunken insults they muttered as they did so. House didn't help--instead, he wandered around the bare living room, tutting at the beer bottles and spilled drinks on the expensive, once-pristine carpet, muttering about cleaning deposits._

_When everybody left, House remained. "You're such a buzz-kill."_

"_And you are a felon!" Bonnie shrieked, silent tears running down her face. "You broke into our house and--and threw a bachelor party that James didn't even want!"_

"_Can't break in if you have a key," House said, procuring a key from out of nowhere. The dancing lights reflected off of the metal._

_He didn't put up a fight when Wilson jerked it form his grasp, not knowing, or caring, how House had gotten it. House had pulled many pranks and had irritated him plenty of times before, but this was crossing a line. "If you come near this house again, I'll make sure to see you behind bars," Wilson threatened, and meant every word of it._

"_Promises, promises," House deflected with a wave of his palm. "Try to keep Little Wilson in his pants. Don't wanna ruin this marriage and be a failure. Oh wait . . . you already are one, aren't you? Here's hoping second time's a charm."_

"_You're an asshole."_

"_And you're an ungrateful bastard with a messiah complex. You try to do a guy a favour, and what do you get? Threats. Shouts. All this coming from a guy whose own brother refuses to be best man. Explain that logic to me." _

_Wilson's face fell. He didn't know how House had found that out, but he supposed it wasn't too hard--a few phone calls here, a question there . . ._

"_Get out," Wilson ordered._

"_Certainly. See ya at work, then. Gotta make sure your precious cue-balls get a fighting chance and all that."_

_Wilson had never punched a man in his life. Considering the circumstances, and the fact he and Bonnie had had a bottle of wine between them, he wasn't at all ashamed to see House stumbling backwards and pressing the back of his hand to his lip. House's blue eyes flashed dangerously and Wilson was suddenly reminded of why he'd avoided fights his whole life when he retaliated._

_Bonnie shrieked and caught Wilson before he fell, white stars growing and popping in front of his eyes. His lip felt four times its normal side and throbbed. House had always been taller than he was, but at the moment, he seemed to have grown at least a foot, hands clenched into fists at his side, and he looked positively frightening._

_House could've kicked the crap out of him--he knew that. Instead, he spun on his heel and stomped out of the house. "Good luck with the marriage," House snapped a second before he slammed the door shut._

_A week later, his lip was perfectly healed, he'd paid the storage fee and bill for the moving vans, and was watching Bonnie walk down the aisle, the most gorgeous smile on her face he'd ever seen. His mind wasn't consumed of thoughts of them growing old together, or how lovely their marriage would be--all he could hope for was that House wouldn't burst in halfway through the ceremony and screw up the whole wedding._

_After they were pronounced husband and wife and had broken the bottle to celebrate, he met his brother's eyes when they shook hands. His heart sank when Peter wished him luck (instead of giving his congratulations) and couldn't help but ruminate over everything House had said._


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter Four

House wasn't in his office when I popped in to see if he wanted lunch, so I walked into the differential room. Kutner, Taub, and Foreman were sitting around the table, all working on a crossword puzzle. "Any of you know where House is?" I asked, rubbing the back of my neck.

"Your guess is as good as ours," Taub muttered, leaning forward to get a better look at the crossword.

"Need him for a consult?" Foreman inquired.

"He's avoiding Cuddy," Kutner added, and really, it was the only answer that actually gave me any information. There were only a few places he hid in when Cuddy was rampaging the hospital, looking to make him do his clinic hours.

I turned around and left the room, realizing that, once again, Thirteen wasn't there. I didn't think much on it, though.

I went to the first empty exam room, poking my head in. I wasn't surprised to see House sitting there. He looked at me casually, eyes moving down and then back up, as if he'd never seen me and was trying to memorize every inch. "That tie is hideous," he greeted, then returned his attention to the small television set. Judging by the melodramatic music the swelled over a poorly acted sob, it was one of his soaps.

"Want lunch?" I asked.

"Only if you're buying."

"As if I'd expect anything else."

He narrowed his eyes at me, then stood up, leaning against the cane. I held the door open for him as he brushed past, staring at me the entire time. My heart fluttered when he stopped in the doorway, so close I could almost feel our chests touching. His eyes flicked over my face suspiciously, then he ambled onward.

I caught up and walked up beside him, our arms brushing up against one another.

He raised his eyebrows at me, nudged me with his elbow roughly, and I nudged back. He smirked, bumped his shoulder against mine, and I couldn't help but smile and return the gesture, a bit rougher than he had. He rolled his eyes, but I caught the fact the sides of his mouth turned upwards.

It was then I noticed Cuddy staring at us, head tilted to the side and face scrunched up in confusion.

We walked towards the elevator, knocking elbows and brushing shoulders. Every time we touched, House retaliated even firmer, until we were both leaning against each other roughly, as if trying to push the other one over.

I was aware of the fact Cuddy and a few other people were staring at us, but it wasn't anything new.

* * *

"If I didn't know any better I'd say you were trying to fatten me up," House said, using a fry to point at me.

"Well, Hansel, you're such a thin little thing. It's best to fatten you up before cooking. Just keep your conniving sister away from me while I fire up the oven."

"Ah, well. I'll take advantage of this while it lasts."

"Might take months, though. You're all skin and bones," I told him, furrowing my brows when I noticed that it hadn't been the streetlamps last night that had made him seem thinner. Had I been so unobservant I hadn't noticed him losing weight? It wasn't anything major--he only looked about ten pounds thinner--but with someone his size, and how close we were, I should've noticed before last night.

"Guess you'll just have to keep buying my lunch then."

I rolled my eyes and shook my head, ignoring him as he took yet another fry. I caught the attention of Cuddy, who was very obviously staring at us, halfway across the cafeteria. House noticed where my attention was and turned in his seat and waved at her. She ducked her head and hurried away.

"Don't run away from your feelings!" he called overdramatically, and she ran off even quicker.

I snorted to hide my laughter, and when he looked back at me, he smirked even wider.

* * *

Although the conversation we had at lunch was somehow stilted, it was far more comfortable than it had been since I'd found out he hadn't opened the gift. Out of all the things for the both of us to have been bothered by, the fact it had been that was odd. But I was under the impression it wasn't so much about that as everything else.

I had just finished doing my rounds and making sure everyone's chemotherapy was on track when Cuddy came up to me. "Just finished your rounds?" she asked conversationally.

"Yes."

"Everything as it should be?"

"Of course. I read a few stories, had a few conversations . . . The usual." Cuddy very rarely started polite, meaningless conversations with me. She was almost as bad as House was--I had a feeling this was about to be derailed into something else. Most likely about House. When it came to Cuddy, it was _always_ about House.

"That's good," she said, brushing off invisible dust on her fitting, attractive blouse. "You're being awfully cuddly with House today."

"No more than usual," I told her, frowning.

She let out a few harsh laughs. "Spare me, Wilson. You don't have to pretend. I hired you because you could deal with him--not because you two would learn to snuggle up together and play footsie during lunch."

Something she said offended me and I stepped into the elevator, furrowing my brows at her. "Playing footsie? Cuddy, we're not . . . dating. We had lunch together--what's so strange about that?"

She waited until the doors closed and I had pressed the floor I wanted before sighing. "That's not what I meant--I know you two aren't . . ." She trailed off and made a face that suggested she didn't quite like where her mind had taken her. "I'm just saying you don't have to lie on my behalf."

"We're not dating. If we were, I wouldn't be ashamed to tell you."

"I never said that. I just meant . . . The two of you--today and yesterday."

The doors opened and I stepped out, heading towards my office. "I'm not sure I'm following. So we ate together. This is strange how?"

"Come on, don't play this game with me. You have more of a reason to hate him than anyone, and nobody blames you for it."

I stopped walking and faced her, putting my hands on my hips, pursing my lips. Was this another one of those 'why are you friends with him' speeches? Out of all the people who had asked, whether it be forward or subtle (which was what Cuddy usually settled with) it irritated me most when it came from her, or others closer to us. I hated justifying it; I didn't feel like it needed to be, least of all to people who continually insinuated I deserved better. They had no idea what he did for me, or all of the crap he put up with.

"I understand what you're saying, but please, let's not do this. I already have to defend this to my psychiatrist--I don't need to defend it to you as well, Lisa."

"I'm not asking you to defend yourself," she insisted, raising both of her hands. "It's nice to see you . . . moving on, but nobody would blame you if you didn't."

"House is House--you know that as well as I do. He's not going to change, and I don't want him to. I can't help but wonder if . . . Never mind," I grumbled, then shook my head, staring at the floor. I did not need to get into an argument with my boss.

"Can't help but wonder what?"

"If you're starting to feel threatened. I know how . . . things are between the two of you."

Her face fell quickly and she looked around, as if making sure no one could have overheard. "It was just a kiss. How you found out about that, I've no idea, but--"

"How I--? He told me about it; you know this." She had even talked about it with me. I'd seen it coming for years, and I had dreaded the moment it happened. I'd pushed him towards her because I wanted him to be happy, even if that meant I'd have to deal with my jealousy. It wasn't like we were ever going to get together anyway.

"He told you?" She looked stunned and I frowned. She mirrored my gesture, hands placed delicately on the top of her skirt, and she rolled her eyes skyward. "You know, I don't want to talk about this right now. I was feeling vulnerable, he was acting like a human for once . . . It doesn't matter. Nothing ever happened because of it, and nothing ever will. And no, I'm not feeling threatened or jealous. Hell, if you can have him, take him. Get him off my back." She waved her hand outward and sighed.

"Then why are we having this conversation?" I asked, moving back towards my office door and putting my hand on the doorknob.

"What happened with Amber . . . was horrible and unprecedented," she said slowly and carefully.

I closed my eyes. Why now? Why was she bringing her up now? It had been months ago, and our problems certainly hadn't stemmed from that. "This wasn't about Amber. It never was."

"I know. You two had problems before that." I bristled at the mention of, I assumed, Tritter. "I commend you trying to . . . whatever it is you're doing. But it won't help. Like you said, he won't change. And it won't bring her back. I just don't want you overcompensating and doing something that'll only worsen things. Trust me, it's best for you to . . ."

"Cut off ties with him completely?" I spoke into the door, clasping onto the cool doorknob again. "Leave this be, Lisa. Please. I can't take this from you too."

I felt her hand on my shoulder, but it was brief and light. "If you want to pursue this, I won't stop you. But don't say I didn't warn you."

I glanced over my shoulder, and my heart sank. She knew. How she knew, I don't know. I hadn't been being 'cuddly' with House, had I? No more than usual. But if she knew, then he had to have figured it out. Perhaps that was why he was acting strangely. "You know how I feel about him." It wasn't a question; I hadn't intended for it to be.

"Nobody blames you. He killed your girlfriend, and has made your life hell since the day I hired you. I'd hate him too."

I furrowed my brows. Hate? She thought I . . . ? "I don't hate--"

She raised both of her hands. "Look, I don't blame you. You two have never gotten along. Seeing the two of you like you were today was odd. If you think you know what you're doing, I won't stop you. But I'm warning you--take it from someone who knows--getting close to House is like playing with fire. You're going to get burned. And if you won't take my word for it, call Stacy Warner."

I blinked at her as she walked away, and then I finally turned the knob to my door. When I stepped in, I saw House standing there, looking at a stuffed animal that he held in his hand. One of my younger patients had given it to me.

"I never told you we kissed," House muttered, keeping his eyes on the bear. "Which means you found out some other way you don't want her know about if you'd use me in your lie."

I shut the door behind me. Obviously, he'd heard our conversation through the door, but he was making as much sense as Cuddy was. Didn't he remember telling me? Didn't he remember assuming I'd think he was kidding?

He tossed the animal to me and I caught it in my left hand. "House . . ."

"You have to defend yourself to your psychiatrist about me? How flattering. Defend what? Why you hate me? Why you blame me for your girlfriend dying?" he spat, his blue eyes glistening.

"I don't hate you. Why is everyone acting so--"

"I've told you that I don't remember. I'm sorry if that isn't good enough for you, but it's the truth."

"What are you--"

"--but that's not what you were saying. You've got no reason to lie to her or your psychiatrist. No reason to defend your hatred of me to your boss or your mind-screwing pill-prescribing hack. Cuddy was warning you about being . . . friendly with me. And you . . ." He pointed at me with his cane, then frowned slightly as he placed it on the ground. "You were defending me. To her. To your shrink. You . . . want to . . ." He pointed at himself with one long finger, then at me, and back to himself. "You're forgiving me for Amber."

"House, I forgave you a long time ago; you know that."

"No I don't. I don't even know what happened that night--how could you possibly . . ." He let out a harsh sigh, then shook his head. "She's right, you know. I push people away. Call Stacy. She's got one up on you, though. I killed her husband."

I blinked at him, not quite sure I'd heard him right. "I'm not sure what you're trying to pull here, but it isn't amusing."

"I'm not kidding. I refused to treat him and he died. Guess he really did have something. Well, other than a hilariously small pancreas."

I looked at the stuffed animal, only because looking at him and listening to him talk was too confusing. "We're friends," I reassured, staring at the furry, fluffy creature in my hands.

"Saying it doesn't make it true, you know. But if that's what you want . . ." I looked up at him and saw that his eyes were focusing directly on me. He tapped his cane against the ground and nodded once. "Well, you know where I live."

We looked at each other for a long time, and I realized he was inviting me over. "Of course I want to be friends. How could you think I didn't--"

"You said you didn't want me to change. Well, that's good, 'cause Cameron found out the hard way. I don't change for anyone, understand?" He was in my personal space suddenly, inches from my face. I was used to him pressing in on my personal bubble, but this felt different. The air was charged between us, and I was too confused at everyone's odd behaviour to figure out what was different than usual. Was it the way he was staring at me? Was it the way he leaned forward? I didn't know.

"I don't want you to change."

"Then we've got everything covered."

He brushed past me and left my office, the door clicking shut loudly behind me. I stared down at the stuffed animal in my hands, went over the day's events, and then slowly made it to my desk, sitting in my chair.

* * *

_Wilson looked through the microscope, adjusting the lens until he saw a clear picture of the cells before him. House was drumming his fingers on the table beside him, so close their elbows kept touching. Every time their arms brushed, Wilson scooted away an inch. House seemed to be making a game of it, though, because in under a minute, Wilson was halfway down the table, scraping the microscope along with him. House chuckled quietly every time he moved closer._

"_No cancer cells."_

"_Damn. Oh, well. Guess this _whole thing_ was a waste of time. But, anyway, since we're alone . . ."_

"_No, I will not make out with you," Wilson murmured and moved to walk past him._

_House stepped in front of him. "Thanks for the info, Mister Sandler, but that wasn't what I was going to say." Wilson went to move around him, but then House stepped in front him again. "You're taking two weeks off. Two weeks!"_

"_In some cultures, newlyweds go on a sort of vacation called 'a honeymoon.'"_

_House intercepted Wilson on his way towards the door. "You were married six months ago."_

"_Bonnie wanted to see France in the summer, not the winter."_

"_So why get married in the winter then?"_

"_We orchestrated the entire thing _just_ to mess with your mind. I see that it's working." He moved past House and this time the diagnostician let him._

_He was out of the lab and halfway down the hall when House's long-legged stride brought him to his side. They strolled along the halls, Wilson walking as quickly as possible without breaking into a run, and House easily kept up. "So, Paris, huh?"_

"_Why do you care?"_

"_What about your precious cancer kiddies? What will they do without Uncle James checking out his luscious locks on the shine of their bald heads?"_

_Wilson stopped moving and glared at the ass who had the audacity to call himself a doctor. "Do you honestly have no concern for anyone other than yourself?"_

"_Sure I do. You're just not one of them."_

"_And so you take pleasure in referring my patients as you do?"_

"_I have a list somewhere. You oughta see some of the things I call them. They're quite clever. I've got Uncle Fester, tumour-ridden toddlers, cue--"_

"_Stop," Wilson commanded, lifting his hand and clenching his teeth together. "One of these days, House, you're going to--"_

"_Reap what I sew? Have karma kick my ass all over Princeton? Yeah, I might worry about that, if I believed the sort of crap that parents teach their kids so that they don't have to discipline them. Leave all the parenting to God and the bogey-man so they can sip their martinis and play bridge. Excuse me if I actually rely on logic instead of superstitious myths."_

_Wilson glared at him, and House smirked. "You're a bastard."_

"_Oh, how I wish. So run along, learn some French, and help your little brats pray to a nonexistent God so they feel better about their death sentences."_

"_Go to hell."_

_House grinned at Wilson as if he'd won, then practically skipped away._

* * *

I'd tried to focus on my paperwork and do my clinic hours, but I still couldn't wrap my mind around everything that had happened today and yesterday. I kept thinking about all the times House had acted like I was doing something strange, despite the fact I wasn't acting any different than I did every other day. I thought about all the beer in my garbage and my massive hangover the when I woke yesterday morning, despite having only had one mug. I thought about Cuddy finding it odd I'd had lunch to him. I thought of the fact all of Amber's things were gone, and how House had taken my fries a bit hesitantly, as if gauging my reaction, although he always ate my food as if it were actually his.

When I was back in my office, putting my things away, I kept staring at the stuffed animal on my desk. It reminded me of Cameron for some reason, and I thought back to what House had said about her trying to change him, and finding out the hard way that he wouldn't.

It felt ridiculous, but I picked up the phone and dialled the ER extension. I put the phone to my ear, and the answered on the third ring, which was actually quicker than I had expected. "Princeton-Plainsboro Teaching Hospital, emergency room," came the dull greeting of one of the nurses.

"Is Cameron there?" I asked, not knowing how I was going to approach the subject without sounding like an idiot. I wasn't even sure if there was anything strange going on in the first place--it could be just some prank House was playing, but still . . . I wasn't even sure what all of it meant, if it meant anything at all.

"Who?"

"Allison Cameron," I repeated louder.

"I think you have the wrong number. This is the Princeton--"

"She's a doctor. I need to speak with her."

"I'm sorry, but she doesn't work here. You should try Princeton General. Do you know their number?"

I blinked, not recognizing the nurse's voice and wondering if she didn't know Cameron because she was new, or if because Cameron really didn't work there. I shook my head--of course she did. The fact I was even considering . . . well, what I was considering, was a mark of how tired I was. Perhaps I needed to talk about it with my psychiatrist.

"Yes, I . . . I know the number, so . . ." I blinked a few times, then hung up the phone.

I stared at the phone for a few moments, then got out of my chair and walked over to House's office. I noticed that Thirteen was gone again, but I didn't much feel like asking where she was. It wasn't that I didn't care, so much as I was afraid of them acting like I should know the answer. I walked into House's office, aware that his team was staring at me through the glass walls as I sat down in the chair across from him.

He was reading over a _Seventeen_ magazine as if it were the most important medical text one could come across, his glasses perched on the end of his nose.

He finished up the page, and then looked at me, taking off his glasses. "What?"

"What happened with Cameron?" I asked, not in the mood to beat around the bush, but hoping that it wasn't a mistake doing so.

"You don't know? Wow, guess the gossip mill doesn't exist in oncology."

"I'm not interested in rumours. I'm interested in what you have to say about it."

"Straightforward. I like it," House commented, then let out a long sigh. "She quit because of Vogler. I wanted her back, but she would only come back under _certain_ terms. I had to take her on a date."

"You refused?"

He scoffed. "She came back, didn't she? Of course I took her on a date. It went a little better than . . . Well, than I had wanted it to. It had been awhile since I'd been on a date. I know how shocking that must be for you, what, with my charming personality and ruggedly handsome looks, but . . . Well, anyway, afterwards, she insisted I take her on another, since we had 'so much fun,'" he said with an eye-roll, his falsetto tone letting me know just who had said they'd had fun.

"You mean you didn't eviscerate her with your very glare? She wasn't traumatized? Amazing feat. She's got more of a backbone than I expected."

"She likes damaged goods. Then she can fix it up and everyone can congratulate her on how patient and kind and saintly she is for being such a hero. So, the second date rolled around, and I had every intention of telling her that I had no interest in her whatsoever. Well, one thing led to another, two glasses of wine became four, then six, and then I asked if she wanted to come to my place for some coffee, which was actually a euphemism for hot, steamy sex, and then . . . Well . . ." He let out a long sigh.

"You had sex with Cameron?"

He nodded. "I'm sure you heard that part of the rumour. It wasn't like she kept her mouth shut. She was in love with me, but I wasn't in love with her. It was a stupid drunken mistake, which I explained to her but she got all starry-eyed like she thought I really wanted something more--which I _didn't--_and of course, then Stacy had to come around and when her husband died, Cameron got all weepy and Mother Theresa on me. Let's just say I wasn't too upset when she skipped off with the TB curing hack. I think I may have shoved her into his arms and fired her sparkly-eyed over-emotional ass. I'm sorry, but there's only so much whining and tears and 'please, House, lemme fix you' I can take without losing my damn mind."

I nodded to myself slowly, still wondering if this was all an elaborate prank, but not sure enough to call him on it. A part of me wondered how on earth House was still working at the hospital if we hadn't been friends and I hadn't been opposed to him being fired, but a larger part was stuck on the fact that I had been the one to send him off on his date with Cameron. I had given him advice on how to approach the whole situation. Somehow, me not saying that had caused Cameron to leave.

"You're not gonna lecture me on how she was in the right? That I'm an ass and that I should've tried to change?"

"Cameron and you would've never worked. You shouldn't need to change in order to be happy; in order to be good enough for someone," I told him dully with a shrug. Was Cameron happy where she was? Or was she miserable? Did it really matter? Why was I even thinking about it? It had to be a prank. There was no way . . .

"Huh. Well. Guess you'd know all about drunken sex with complete strangers. And for the record, I still don't believe you went to bed early on Christmas. Probably deleted your Spanish crap in a drunken fit of 'I hate being Jewish on Christmas' and was so traumatized you blamed it on me. And as for the Skinemax? Oh, come on. Everybody's watched that crap and jerked furiously to it 'cause they were either too pathetic or too lazy to search for _real_ porn."

I rolled my eyes. "For your information, I only had one mug on Christmas. Hardly enough for selective amnesia. Or amnesia of any sort."

"Right, sure. I've seen the way you suck down vodka like it's going out of style."

"Are you sure you're not talking about yourself?"

"Hey. I save the vodka for special occasions. I prefer my scotch, thank you."

"If special occasion translates to 'anytime I've gotten my lazy ass off the couch and bought some orange juice' then I'm inclined to agree."

I remembered the odd girl who had struck up a conversation with me, and my heart sank. Without knowing what caused it, I distinctly remembered wishing that House and I had never become friends.

"Hey, it's not always orange juice. Sometimes I buy that peach-mango SunnyD stuff, too."

I nodded slowly, mind still stuck on the conversation I'd had with that girl, and how I hadn't known she been manipulating me until she walked away. I remembered thinking she reminded me of House, and furrowed my brows. It could be a prank. A massive prank all set up by House. I had no idea how he'd managed to get Cuddy to play along, but the nurse in the ER and some pretty girl playing along wasn't too far-fetched.

As ridiculous as it sounded, I had to prove it was a prank--or prove that it wasn't. I wasn't sure what I believed, but I knew that girl had something to do with it.

I stood up from my chair and House looked at me suspiciously. "Hey, man, don't knock peach-mango 'til you've tried it."

"It's not that. I've just . . . realized something." He started over to the door and froze before I opened it. I looked over my shoulder and noticed his slightly paler and thinner form. There was no way he could've pulled that off in a day, all for a prank. But it was either that or I really had found myself in some alternate reality where we had never become friends due to an idle wish I'd made to a stranger. "I'll see you later," I told him, then slipped out into the hallway before he could reply.

* * *

A/N--Thanks to those who are reviewing! Also, thanks to those who inquired after my health.


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter Five

_The flight to Paris hadn't taken absurdly long, but it had taken long enough for Wilson to consider yanking Bonnie to the bathroom and joining the Mile High Club. Luckily (or was it unluckily?) for him, Bonnie wasn't a very adventurous person, and he was too cautious to attempt such a thing. It wasn't as if they hadn't already made love plenty of times, and they had been married for six months already, but it was the fact they were having their honeymoon that made him feel like a young teen in love with the prom queen._

_Nearly as soon as the hotel room door closed behind him he attached his mouth to his wife's, liking the feel of her surprised giggle against his lips. Her hands slid up his chest, and he could feel her tiny, warm palms through the fabric of his hoody, and he walked her backwards towards the mattress. He didn't care if going on a honeymoon in France was cliché, and he didn't care if his French accent sounded more Canadian or if it was rusty from years of inexperience; all he cared was that he was kissing his wife while she stripped his hoody off of his body and tossed it to the floor._

_His cell phone rang._

_He pulled his mouth away from Bonnie's and stared at the pocket of his pants_

_He pulled it out with every intention of throwing it across the room and destroying the damn thing, but then he saw that the call was coming from the hospital. "It's the hospital," he stated, brain hazy with lust as Bonnie began pressing wet kisses on his Adam's apple._

"_Hurry," she whispered when his right hand ghosted over her breast as he answered the phone with his left._

"_Hello?" he murmured into the receiver, pressing a light kiss to Bonnie's mouth before she resumed her ministrations on his throat._

"_Hello Sunshine!" came the overly-cheery voice of Gregory House._

"_What the _hell_ are you doing?" he barked into the phone, and Bonnie jumped at his tone._

"_Hey, I was wondering, what are the chances of paraneoplastic syndrome being mistaken for the common cold? 'Cause I have this clinic patient who--"_

"_Goodbye," Wilson snapped, then hung up his phone. Then, just to be safe, he turned his phone off, and kissed his confused-looking wife._

_It didn't take longer than a second for the both of them to get back into the swing of things, and then she was unbuckling his pants as they fell to the bed. She whipped off his belt energetically, and he devoured her tongue, lifting his waist so she could shove his pants down his legs. He kicked them off and began suckling on her neck, hand sliding up her skirt while he moved atop her, listening to her needy moans with a grin on his face._

_The hotel phone rang._

_They both stopped moving. Wilson was willing to blame it on his imagination until it rang a second time. Sighing, he rolled off of her and picked it up off the receiver before putting it beside his ear. "Hell-_unh," _he greeted just as Bonnie rolled on top of him, tonguing the hollow of his throat._

"_Oh-ho, am I interrupting special private time with the missus?" came House's gleeful voice._

_Wilson had never been aroused and irritated at the same time. Not surprisingly, it wasn't something he wanted to experience ever again. "Oh, my God," he grunted, but he wasn't sure if it was out of anger or the fact Bonnie had slipped her hands into his boxers._

"_Either she's good, or I'm _really_ good," he managed through a laugh._

_House's laugh had always irritated and unnerved him, like a horrible feeling of déjà vu and foreboding at the same time. "Don't call again," Wilson snapped, then slammed the phone on the receiver. A moment later, he picked it up again and placed it on the table._

"_Now, where were we?" Wilson asked, just before he switched positions and grinned when Bonnie laughed._

* * *

I paced in my office, glancing at all of the pictures and stuffed animals I had placed around the room.

Sighing, I picked up the phone and dialled Stacy's number. I had memorized it awhile ago, but I still had to think over the numbers first. My stomach flipped unpleasantly at the first ring, and part of me hoped that Stacy wouldn't answer. Whether or not I really _was_ in an alternate reality, how was I going to go about asking her? And why was I checking anyway? It had to be a prank! This was exactly the sort of thing House would do . . . So then why was I so fixated on it?

She answered midway through the third ring, and I sat down on my chair heavily. "Stacy? Uh, Stacy Warner?" I added carefully, hoping I didn't sound too unsure.

"This is she. Who's this?"

"It's James." There was a small second of silence, and I squeezed my eyes shut. "James Wilson."

"I'm not sure I . . . Oh." I could tell by how short the last word was that she'd remembered me. I wondered what House had told her about me. "You're from Princeton-Plainsboro. Greg talked about you."

"I'm sure he did," I muttered as I pinched the bridge of my nose and lowered my chin to my chest. "Listen, about . . . House . . ."

"Whatever it is he told you or did, I had absolutely nothing to do with it. And why do you have this number? Oh, God. He didn't say we were married, did he? Because I can tell you right now tha--"

"No, no, no, he never said--I came across this number in, uh . . ." I thought quickly. "You're in his emergency contact list."

"Was there an accident? Did he OD? I'm sorry, but I want nothing to do with him. Call his mother--better yet, call his boss. She'd know more about him than I would at this point. In fact, you probably knew him more than I did when I was dating him."

"No, no, everything's fine. He just . . . hurt himself. He . . . fell. I'll ask him to update his . . . paperwork immediately."

"Please do."

And with that, she hung up.

I stared at my desk and frowned. So Stacy hadn't known who I was, and I knew that House never would've been able to convince her to play along--especially not after he'd led her on just to tell her to leave with Mark.

So what did that mean? So was I really stuck in an alternate reality where House and I hated each other? Cameron was really off helping cure TB in third world countries? What was going on? How was this possible? And how was that girl involved and why, out of everybody in New Jersey, had she talked to me? Granted my idle wish that I hadn't actually meant in the first place? Of course I wondered at times what life would've been like if we'd never become friends--who didn't wonder about what could've been? But that didn't mean I honestly wanted to live it!

But was his life that much worse? He didn't seem to be much different. Paler, maybe, a bit thinner . . . Stacy absolutely hated him and he'd indirectly killed Mark . . . Cameron had left him because she couldn't handle being in a relationship with an unchangeable bastard . . . But was he worse off? Better off? Or was his life just as it always had been?

Sighing, I shook my head and started searching through my desk, looking for any more clues as to how our lives were different. We still worked at the same hospital, Amber had still died and, although I must've gotten rid of her things for some unfathomable reason, I was living in her apartment. Were we so unimportant to each other that, other than the fact we hated each other, our lives hadn't changed?

It didn't feel right.

I frowned when I pulled open a desk drawer and found a half-empty bottle of Jack Daniels. I moved it aside and found an upturned shot glass with Paris written on its side in elaborate cursive. There was a pack of cigarettes with only six left and I lifted it, examining it in the light.

All right, so apparently I smoked and drank occasionally at work. Odd, and completely unprofessional, but . . . I suppose it wasn't all that bad. I could be worse.

There were a few sharp knocks on the door and I jumped, dropping the pack to the floor. Before I could say anything, the door opened. I closed the drawer quickly and smiled at my assistant. So I had the same assistant?

"Doctor Wilson," she greeted, smiling at me. "Bonnie called."

"She did?"

"She finally got the alimony pay check." Alimony? What? I'd stopped paying her alimony awhile ago. "Also, your parents called--I told them you were in a meeting, of course."

"You told them I was in a meeting? Er . . . Why?" I asked tentatively.

She tilted her head and knitted her eyebrows together. "You told me to tell your parents you weren't in whenever they called."

Why the _hell_ would I say that? "Er . . . Yes. Good. Thanks." I nodded, then smiled.

"Is . . . Everything all right?"

"Er . . . Why? What makes you ask?"

She shrugged. "I don't know. You seem a little . . . off. And you've been . . . um, you and House . . ."

"Have been getting along more than usual? Well, getting along at all is unusual, right?" She smiled and looked at the floor, nodding gently. "Everything is fine. I've just . . . House is an interesting man."

She raised her eyebrow. "Okay. If you say so. Don't really . . . Um, you two seem very different from each other. But I'm glad. That, you know. You can look past . . . things. But . . . uh, I just needed to tell you I cancelled your appointment with your psychiatrist for tomorrow--I would've done it yesterday, but she was still on her Christmas vacation, apparently."

I blinked at her. Why would I cancel my appointment?

"Why did you need me to cancel it again?" she asked, tilting her head.

"It's been a stressful week," I evaded, having no idea as to why I would, but I knew I needed to say something.

"I can see that," she said, then gestured at the cigarettes I had dropped on the floor. My cheeks were suddenly warm and she smiled thinly at me before turning around and leaving my office. If she said goodbye, I didn't hear it.

I had tried smoking nicotine once in my life, during med school. It was during finals and Hanukkah had been near. I'd been stressed, and my roommate had said my "pink lungs" would distribute the nicotine quicker throughout my body and calm me down. Having smoked weed a few times before, I figured it wouldn't be too hard to inhale. I would admit it calmed me a little and gave me a head rush, but not enough for me to be interested in smoking regularly. I hadn't smoked marijuana much, either--only during special occasions, and I hadn't touched even that since I'd finished med school.

Sighing, I slid off of my chair and hit my knees, grabbing the pack that was half under my desk, but apparently not enough to go unnoticed.

The door opened again sharply and I jumped, thwacking the back of my head against my desk. Tears burned the edges of my eyes and little white dots swam before my vision. I pressed my hand again my scalp to check the tender spot. There wasn't any blood--I hadn't expected there to be--but I'd probably have a bump there by the end of the night.

I stood up, holding the pack, only to be shoved against my desk, the edge jamming against the lower portion of my back. House's blue eyes were dark and piercing, and I didn't have to be his best friend in order to tell he was furious. "House, wha--"

WHAM!

His cane found its way right into my solar plexus and I couldn't breath for a long and horrifying second. I fell to my knees, clutching my stomach, and when my lungs finally decided to work, I gasped for air.

"Get up," House ordered acidly.

I used the desk for leverage and then made to move past him, but he stood in my way. "No, you don't," he growled, grabbing my shoulders and pushing me against the desk again. "Just what do you think you're playing at?"

"I don't kn--"

"You called Stacy! And don't deny it--I _just_ got off the phone with her. Explain to me _why_ she was demanding to be taken off my emergency contact list when I took her off _years_ ago. And you better say something quick before I break that pretty nose of yours."

I let out a long sigh, not sure what I was supposed to say or how to react. House and I had argued plenty of times, but it had never become a physical altercation. It threw me off-blanace, almost. I couldn't possibly tell him the truth, because I was beyond thinking it was a prank at this point. And if he somehow managed to convince Stacy to play along were it a joke, he wouldn't have attacked me when I called her, since he would've been anticipating it.

"I . . ."

"Oh, let me guess--had to check up to make sure I wasn't lying when I said I killed her husband. Had to take Cuddy up on her offer and ask Stacy why getting involved with me had been a bad idea." He pushed me, but not nearly as hard as he could've, and his mouth turned up in a scowl.

"I just . . . I wanted to . . ."

"To what? Make my life hell? Spending the last few months in agony over what happened isn't enough? Finally decided to get payback for me killing Cutthroat Bitch? You even warned me last night, didn't you? Put up the pretence of it being about me deleting your _El Fungus of Whore_ or whatever. 'This means war' you said. Well, if you want to do it, face me like a man. I may be crippled, but you're a self-indulgent whiny masochistic _bitch_ so I think it evens out."

Wow. Harsh.

"That's not what it was about. I just . . . I wanted to make sure."

"Make sure what? That I really am a heartless bastard? What, you need _more_ evidence? To what, validate the fact you hate me? Couldn't just accept your feelings--oh no, not the great Jimmy Wilson, you can't hate anybody because of a slight done to _you._ No, that would make you selfish. Have to find other reasons to hate me--to justify the fact you're just as petty as the next human and can actually hate someone. God, you're pathetic."

"I don't hate you."

"No, you just want to."

"I just called her to ask about you! Is that so wrong?" I snapped, and he took a step back, as if surprised I'd yelled at him. "I couldn't very well tell her I wanted to be friends with the man who killed her husband, could I? God! Not everything is about how much of an ass you are!"

House let out a long sigh, then went over to the patients' chair, the one I had delivered so much bad news towards, and sat heavily. He was still glaring at me, rubbing his thigh, but it didn't look like he was going to attack me again.

I bent down, picking up the pack of smokes. "It was an innocent call. I had no idea she'd be so opposed to talk about you," I muttered a moment later, the air still thick with tension.

"Right, because people, in general, adore those who kill their loved ones. You should know that."

I bristled at the mention of Amber. "You didn't kill her, House," I reassured, then sat in the desk tentatively, and stared at the pack before going to open the drawer I'd found it in, only deciding to put it away so I could do something. The back of my head throbbed.

House held out his hand wordlessly. "Gimme a smoke," he demanded.

I hesitated, then tossed him the pack. "Take the whole thing. I don't care."

"What happens when one of your little kiddies die?" he asked, putting a cigarette in his mouth. "I don't have a lighter. And don't act like you don't--you've probably got it hidden where you keep your Jack."

"How'd you--"

"We share a balcony and your door is see-through."

Sighing, I opened the drawer and reached in, pulling out the lighter. "You can keep that, too," I told him, and he took it, lighting up.

There was a short silence that dragged on longer than it actually was.

He let out a few puffs of blue smoke. "You planning on quitting?" I had a feeling he only spoke to break the quiet.

"Well, you know what the surgeon general says. Apparently, they can cause cancer."

He snorted, then puffed out a ring. "Pour out a shot of Jack, while the drawer's open."

"We're working."

"Never stopped you before. And before you ask--balcony. See-through door."

I pulled out the Jack Daniels and the Paris shot glass. I poured a shot out then pushed it across the table for him. He picked it up and read it, then knocked it back with ease. "From your and Bonnie's honeymoon, then?" he asked, placing it on the table with a clink.

I furrowed my brows. I had gone to Niagara Falls with Bonnie. We had talked about France, but I'd decided against it--not because it was too far from work, as I had told her, but because it was too far from House, and instead of taking two weeks off, like Cuddy had offered to give me, I'd only taken one. Once again, I'd blamed work, but I was pretty sure everybody knew the real reason. Of course, our honeymoon had been cut short when Cuddy called to inform me about the infarction, so I hadn't even had the full week. Six months planning our honeymoon, and it had ended abruptly. Bonnie had been less than pleased.

"Yeah," I answered, hoping that I wasn't lying.

House chuckled darkly and poured another shot, pushing it over to me. I stared at it with distaste, then looked back at him. "Oh, come on. You're the one hiding whisky in your desk." He had a point. I nodded, then drank the shot. It didn't burn going down my throat as much as it normally did. "Besides, I'm in no position to judge. I've got LSD in my desk, if you want to have a _real_ party."

"In your eye drops bottle?" His face fell as I poured a drink. In reality, House had told me that ages ago. Instead, I lied and told him; "Balcony. See-through door."

He took the shot. "So you do the full background check on all your potential friends?"

"What can I say. I'm actually an employee at the CIA."

He downed it and smiled a humourless, dark smile. "Hopefully you're a better doctor than the mocha beauty who killed the one case of lupus I actually had."

He hadn't fired her for being stupid?

I cleared my throat. "Luckily for me, I don't need much training. All I really have to do is hand out death sentences and look pretty."

He chuckled breathily as he poured me a drink, then slowly pushed it over to me. "So why call Stacy? You can't have expected her to wax poetic."

"She spent five years dealing with you. Perhaps I was trying to pick up tips and how to handle your . . . _charming_ personality," I muttered before downing yet another shot.

"Slow down, Don Quixote. We've already got murdering your one true love over with--if you can move pass that, then there's not much else you need tips on. And besides, who says I wanna be the third Mrs. Wilson anyway?"

"Well, I already share half my food with you. I figured, oh, what the hell? Might as well go the whole nine yards." I handed him his shot.

"You've shared your food for the past two days. That hardly counts. But still, I see your point. Why have we been fighting it for all these years? With my sarcastic wit, and your good looks, it's a match made in heaven. Think of the children."

"Yes, because biologically, two men can breed," I stated, blinking once.

He drank his whiskey quickly. "Of course they can. Well, unless the movie _Junior _lied to us, anyway. Arnold would never star in a scientifically inaccurate movie, so I take it at face value."

I shook my head, then put the bottle away, as well as the shot glass.

House made a noise of protest, but I didn't care. He sucked in a lungful of nicotine and blew the air into my face. I grimaced, still at a loss at what had happened between us in the last two minutes. "You know, for an alcoholic, you're not much fun," he muttered.

"I am _not_ an alcoholic."

"Sure. And I've got a perfectly healthy leg."

I went to protest, then realized that maybe, in this reality anyway, I was.

"She went behind my back and tore out my thigh muscle," he explained, smoking thoughtfully.

"I know. I'm sorry."

"I had no way of knowing he would die. He didn't have any outward symptoms. All his other doctors thought he was faking . . . or paranoid. But . . . I'm not sure I would've cared even if I did know he'd been about to die."

I sighed, remembering this conversation back when he'd been diagnosing Mark. "I'm sure you would've cared, had you been diagnosing him. You can't have assumed you wouldn't have cared. You had no way of knowing there was actually something wrong. She can't expect you to see something none of the other doctors did after removing your thigh muscle and leaving you afterwards. You can't blame yourself."

He nodded, but he didn't seem to actually care about what I'd just said.

He stood out of his chair and started towards the door. Before he left, he turned back, and blew another smoke ring. "If you ever go behind my back again, the board finds out about Grace."

When I saw the dark glimmer in his eyes, my heart stopped. A second later, he slipped out of my office, and I stared at the closed door, stunned.

* * *

A/N--If you think the altercation between House and Wilson is a little OoC, I just think that without Wilson as his best friend, House would've been a bit more tempermental and mood-shifty.


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter Six

_Wilson still felt a little jet-lagged when he strolled into the hospital his first day back from his honeymoon. His sunburn had turned into a tan and the sun had lightened his hair a shade or so. Apparently, judging by the fact his pants were loose around his waist, he'd lost some weight as well. He'd spent two weeks in Paris, and he hated admitting it, but he hadn't wanted to come home. It was the one thing he hated about vacations--he never felt like he had something to come home to. It would've been too easy to stay in Paris with Bonnie and start a new life, but he couldn't do that. Not if he wanted to keep his job, anyway._

_He tried not to notice the looks the young nurses were giving him as he walked by, but he couldn't help it, and he smiled, despite himself._

_The now-familiar clicking of heels on linoleum announced Cuddy's presence as she joined him on his way to the elevator. "You look tan," she greeted, smiling politely at him._

"_Thank you." He wanted to compliment her on her appearance as well, but when he went to do so, he noticed she looked stressed. Her clothes were fitting a little too loosely, and the bags under her eyes were barely hidden beneath her foundation. "Is everything all right?"_

_She sighed and pressed her fingers to her temple. "Where to start?" she muttered, letting out a long sigh. "I hate asking you this, but can you cover House's clinic hours and caseload for awhile? I know you two don't get along, and I'll understand if you refuse, but I wouldn't ask if I didn't need it."_

_Wilson knew that, if she wanted, she could order him to do it, but she would never force him to do something when asking politely would get the same result. Despite the fact that Wilson and House didn't get along at all--he would even go so far as to say that they had a rivalry--he was the only one who could stand him, even the slightest bit. He could imagine Cuddy asking everybody to cover House's clinic hours, not to mention his patients, and everyone refusing. Although Wilson hated him, he'd seen firsthand how great of a diagnostician he was. A horrible man, perhaps--but a great doctor. He only hoped that if he got a case that he'd be able to diagnose the patient._

"_Of course. May I ask why?" He took the files she handed over, and she visibly relaxed. Her shoulders lowered and the tightness of her lips disappeared. When she sighed, it was like all of her stress left her body with the air._

"_He had an infarction, Stacy removed his thigh muscle, despite the fact she knew he was against it. She really only had his best interest in mind, but . . . She left him."_

"_All this happened in two weeks?" he asked, hardly daring to believe it. Then he remembered he was a doctor, and that in the space of an hour, he'd seen patients go from perfectly healthy to near death. Of course it had only taken two weeks._

"_Has it really only been that long?" she aired, sounding confused. Then she let out a sigh. "It's been hell. House is horrible on the best of days. I don't blame her for leaving, but I don't blame him for hating her. For . . . hating me . . ."_

_Wilson reached forward and pressed his hand to her shoulder comfortingly. He'd never thought of her as anything other than a boss, but that didn't mean he couldn't comfort her when she needed it. She smiled briefly at him and he removed his hand, not wanting to cross the line between comfort and intimacy. "How long will he be gone?"_

"_I don't know. It wouldn't be so difficult if he had someone there with him. A friend, maybe. He's so alone."_

_They were both aware of the fact that they could logically visit him and be a 'friend' but neither of them were going to do it. Throwing the suggestion up in the air shoved the responsibility off of their shoulders; mentioning what needed to be done, but not doing it, was how most people dealt with House anyway._

"_I hired a physical therapist to help him," Cuddy said after a moment of shared guilty silence. Wilson nodded, looking over the first case. "She's good at what she does. Hopefully she's good enough."_

_Wilson was more honest. "Hopefully she can handle House."_

"_Julie has a list of recommendations as long as my arm. If she can't handle him, no one can."_

_Wilson nodded half-heartedly, and realized that they were in front of the elevator. "I wouldn't hold my breath," he told her and she nodded, looking about a sombre as someone standing beside the casket of a loved one._

_Despite the fact Wilson didn't like House at all, he nearly called him several times just to see how he was doing. He even asked Cuddy for House's address to stop by, but he never got around to visiting him. He blamed it on not only taking on his workload, but House's, and even that he needed to spend time with his wife, despite the fact Bonnie had even suggested he go check on him several times. He blamed it on everything under the sun, except for the one thing it actually was--he just didn't like him, and wanted absolutely nothing to do with House. In fact, although he would never admit it out loud, a part of him didn't even want him to come back._

* * *

Normally, I wouldn't ask House before stopping by for a visit. I would just show up with either a six-pack of beer, Thai food, or both. But seeing as we obviously weren't best friends in Bizarro World, I thought it was probably best to ask before showing up. It had been years since I'd had to ask, and I wasn't quite sure how to go about it. I figured I'd pop my head into his office and just . . . ask.

I shook my head, feeling like an idiot. With my luck, just as soon as I'd accepted that I was in an alternate reality, he'd finally admit to it being a prank.

Mind made up, I pushed my chair away from my desk and finished another set of paperwork that I'd already done. It looked like I hadn't done my rounds for Christmas Eve or Christmas. I hadn't done any of my clinic hours for a week, either. Cuddy hadn't confronted me about it, so I could only presume it wasn't something I made a habit of. Or maybe I did, and Cuddy had just stopped trying.

I looked around at all of the pictures and stuffed animals I had in my office. If I were negligent in my duties, why would my patients give me presents? I had cancelled my appointment, too. That wasn't like me. Was I planning on quitting going? Quitting taking my depression medication? Or was I just having a stressful week? I didn't mind being Jewish during the Christmas season, but maybe that was only because I had House to spend my time with.

I walked down the hall, looking into the diagnostics room to see if Thirteen was still missing. She was. I wanted to ask why, but how could I ask that in a world where it wasn't an aberration? Would they even know who Thirteen was? Or was she just sick?

I knocked once before opening the door and walking into House's office. He was lying on the floor, headphone covering his ears, the music so loud I could almost hear the words of whatever he was listening to. His eyes met mine for a moment, then moved back to the ceiling. "Are you here to apologize for calling Stacy?" he half-yelled.

I shook my head as I made my way over to the chair.

"Good," he said, then turned off his iPod and took off the headphones. "Because if you came in here to apologize, I think I'd vomit at your flashy smile and sparkly, tear-filled eyes. Apologizing is for pussies."

I watched him stand up and make his way to his chair. He winced when he sat and ground his palm into his thigh.

"Bad day?" I asked, gesturing towards his leg.

"No more than usual," he replied, dry-swallowing a few pills. Judging by the glazed over look in his eyes, more Vicodin was the last thing he needed. "So why are you here?"

"I was actually wondering if you'd mind me dropping by later tonight," I told him bluntly. There was no other way to ask House anything other than being straightforward. If I danced around the subject, he'd figure it out anyway, and harass me about why I wouldn't just straight-out ask him.

He raised his eyebrows at me, but before he could talk, the door opened behind me and his eyes moved away from me and to the new entrant. "Look, Mommy! I've learned to share with the other boys and girls!" he greeted in a childish voice, pointing at me.

Although I already knew who had come in, I glanced over my shoulder at Cuddy, who did _not_ looked pleased. She walked over to the desk and threw a folder onto his desk. House opened it casually, read over the paper inside, and rolled his eyes. "Well, that'll never go through."

"A formal complaint, House! How many of these do I have to deal with a year?"

"Enough where this one shouldn't get your thong in a twist. And by the way, can't you see I'm busy? Wilson was just about to tell me how dreadfully sorry he was for dredging up my past. I think if I twisted his arm just a _little_ bit more he might've cried."

"You told her to _get over it,"_ she snapped, placing her hands on her hips. For all it was worth, I may as well have not even been in his office.

House rolled his eyes. "She had a sore throat; not cancer. She's a paranoid spoiled brat who rushes into the clinic every time she sneezes just because Mommy made her soup every time she felt a little groggy. Now that poor Mommy kicked the bucket, she has to get the attention elsewhere. Well, I'm not here to coddle hypochondriacs."

"You mocked her mother's death not _three weeks_ afterwards! Her mother died of cancer, which you would know if you actually read the patient's history!"

"Her mother died of emphysema, not cancer."

"Oh, well then! I guess everything's just fine! Excuse me for overreacting!"

"You're excused."

"House, you have _got_ to stop treating your patients this way. One of these days, you're going to do something I can't smooth over."

"Because you're just full of love and compassion for every person admitted into the hospital, right? That wasn't you leaping for joy when you found out the tubby teenager was going to croak all because the little undersized orphan she squirted out is going to suckle at your tit and make you feel like less of a failure?"

The room fell silent, but the air around us was suddenly heavy; tense. I could tell by the sudden change in Cuddy's posture that he'd taken a step too far. She turned on her heel and stormed out of the office, leaving the both of us alone with the tension pressing inward.

"I'll leave my door unlocked. I don't care what you do," House said a long moment later, got out of his chair and slung his backpack over his shoulder.

It wasn't until the door closed behind him, leaving me alone in his office, that I grasped the concept that he was referring to me dropping by later that night.

* * *

_Wilson didn't hate working late as much as he told his wife he did. He hadn't become a doctor because he hated work, after all. It wasn't that he disliked going home, but he just didn't want Bonnie to think he'd rather be at work than with her. So when he had to stay later than usual, he acted like it was a great injustice, even when it wasn't. _

_Unlike his last wife, Bonnie actually understood that being a doctor took up a lot of time, and so far, it hadn't started any fights. She didn't mind all the late hours, or the emergency pages and phone calls. Or at least, he hadn't thought she did. But then a few nights ago, someone had coded and one of his nurses had called. He supposed it was his fault--after all, he hadn't wanted to start his relationship with Bonnie on lies, and had told her that he'd cheated on his first wife with one of his classmates. He'd told her everything--that him always being gone had started fights, and that his first wife couldn't handle the late hours, and how the bills were starting to pile up and med school was stressful and all of the little things just grew and grew, and how a night out with a couple of drinks had turned into the straw that broke the camel's back._

_Perhaps that was why Bonnie was overly kind when it came to the late hours. Maybe she was just overcompensating._

_But he was starting to wonder if he shouldn't have told her about how his infidelity had caused his divorce, because when the nurse called him to tell him his patient had coded, Bonnie had been suspicious. It had started a fight, and when Wilson had left, she'd called every twenty minutes. He'd had to tell his staff to page him from now on--that calling his house was strictly forbidden, and calling his cell phone was unnecessary. He didn't want to get into any more useless fights over something completely innocent._

_Taking House's caseload and clinic hours hadn't bothered her--the fact he'd spent the night in his office, sleeping on his uncomfortable couch, more than a few times hadn't bugged her in the slightest, but one damn phone call from a nurse and she went ballistic? He wasn't cheating on Bonnie and he wasn't planning on doing so, either, but how could he expect to have a good marriage if she didn't even trust him?_

_He hadn't needed to stay late, but for the past few days Bonnie had been cold and suspicious. When House had called for a consult, it had caused another argument. Ever since House had returned to work, he had been crueller; harsher. But at least he hadn't been obnoxious--not really. House hadn't been trying to cause a rift between him and Bonnie--he'd just called at an inopportune time, not a few days after his nurse had called him into work._

_But it felt satisfying to blame the jackass anyway._

_He'd spent all that time working on House's cases and taking his clinic hours, and the bastard hadn't even thanked him. Even now that he was back, he went home far earlier than necessary, and sometimes didn't bother to come in at all. He knew that he couldn't help the fact his leg was in pain, and that his physical therapist (Janey? Julie?) still had to visit him twice a week. It wasn't his fault his girlfriend had removed his thigh muscle as well as herself from his life, and it wasn't his fault he needed Wilson to do a consult, either._

_After he'd finished up his consult, he didn't go home, despite the fact he could have. Instead, he checked up on all of his patients, and for the first time in his life, thanked God that the clinic was open twenty-four hours. He gladly took House's hours--not because House asked, but because he didn't want to go home._

_But when Wilson looked at the nearest clock and saw that it was almost one, he figured it would be best for him to crawl into bed beside his wife, leech some of her warmth, and hope that she'd finally gotten over the bad mood she'd been in for the past few days._

_He finished some paperwork that wasn't due for another few days, and resisted the urge to look up what bars nearby were still open. He didn't want to go home, but he couldn't afford to get drunk this late at night. Not with work in the morning and his wife already angry with him._

_He thought of the accusations that would be shouted in his direction when he came home late, but if he didn't come home at all, she would assume he'd just gotten busy. Or at least, that was how he justified deciding to stay the night in his office._

_To get some fresh air, he walked out onto the balcony, loosening his tie until it was draped over his shoulders, moments away from sliding off and drifting over the balcony, fluttering to the ground far below him. He unbuttoned the top few buttons of his shirt, the cool air sliding in through the collar. It was almost to that point in the year where it would get too cold to stand on the balcony--in fact, he'd only been outside for a minute or so, and the chill was almost to the point of being uncomfortable._

_It was dark outside--so dark that the lights of the city looked like large stars and he was floating in space, far away from New Jersey and Bonnie and unfair accusations and regrets over a stupid mistake he shouldn't have admitted to._

_He heard a noise from House's office, which wasn't at all odd, seeing as he had a case. Wilson glanced over his shoulder and watched House stand out of his chair. He stumbled forward and caught himself on the desk in front of him, holding his thigh. He made a noise like a dying animal, unearthly and loud and probably only because House had absolutely no idea Wilson was still at work._

_He reached into his pocket and pulled out a bottle of Vicodin, staring at it as if it had somehow insulted him. Wilson had seen House take some medication not an hour ago--it was far too soon to be taking more. House stared at the bottle, then at the clock on the wall._

_He lowered his head to his chest for a moment, before tapping out a small white pill and dry-swallowing it._

_When he limped out of the room, still clutching his thigh, Wilson almost felt sorry for him. He almost left his office to strike up a civil conversation, if only because he knew the pain in his leg had to be intense._

_Instead, he went back into his office, shutting the glass door against the cold, curled up on his couch and fell asleep._

* * *

I didn't go over to House's place until around eight o' clock. I'd brought some pizza. Normally I would've brought beer, except apparently I was an alcoholic in this reality and I didn't want to reinforce that behaviour.

I made my way up his walk, balancing the box of pizza as I shouldered open the door into the hallway outside of his apartment. I rapped my knuckles against the wood, remembering that he'd said he was going to leave the door unlocked. I knew that he only said that so he wouldn't have to get up and open the door for me, but I knocked anyway, just in case he felt generous (which was another way of saying, felt like proving that he wasn't in too much pain to function.)

I twisted the knob, realizing that he actually had left it unlocked, and I stepped inside. The first thing I noticed was how messy the place was. House had never been picky about being clean--apparently, his father had been practically OCD, and a part of me believed House's general lack of cleanliness was some sort of way of getting back at him--but he'd never been messy, either.

Papers and bottles were strewn over the coffee table, with Chinese takeout boxes littering the floor beside the couch. That wasn't what caught my attention, though. What did was the fact his piano was covered in mail, magazines, his keys . . . No matter how lazy or messy he got, House took obsessive care of his piano. He treated that thing better than he treated himself.

"House? I brought pizza," I greeted, looking at his obvious absence from the piano bench and, unless he was lying down and I couldn't see him, from the couch as well.

I walked forward a bit, and saw House lying on the floor. Just like Christmas, a few years back. And just like then, a second later I found myself beside him, turning him over on his back, the pizza forgotten somewhere on the floor and the door open to the outside noises and cold, but I couldn't hear or feel anything except for my heartbeat. The pounding and whooshing in my ears was only rivalled by the hammering in my chest, and I didn't try to hold back the sting in my eyes.

A sheen of sweat covered his face and vomit (the same colour of the pile beside his head) smeared up his cheek, the scent of scotch and body odour and cigarettes filling my nostrils, along with the puke. "House!" I near-shouted, giving him a little shake.

His eyes opened and I almost let out a sigh of relief, until I saw the glazed look in them. "Wil . . . She fired . . . Wha' are you . . ." He head fell back with a thunk to the floor, and his eyes rolled backwards.

"House! House, don't you dare do this!" I snapped, shaking him again.

I saw the rubber band around his arm and the world tilted on its axis. I fell back on my haunches, and prayed to God he hadn't taken heroin. A bottle of clear liquid rolled out from underneath his arm--morphine, I decided--and pressed my fingers to his throat, trying to find a pulse.

Thoughts of euthanasia and lethal doses of morphine filled my mind. Thoughts of balding, withered cancer patients staring up at me a moment before their eyes rolled backwards, the blaring noises the monitors made following.

I'd heard a thousand times over that right before a person died, his life flashed before his eyes. Nobody had ever told me that was true for this situation, too.

A thousand memories of eating food and watching television and arguments and laughter with House fired off in my head in the second or so it took for me to finally find a pulse. A small, barely-there pulse, and I sucked in a breath, suddenly aware that tears were streaming down my face.

I bolted for the phone, aware that I was kicking the bottle of morphine and the syringe away with my foot. Shot glasses scattered away as I moved, the world feeling heavy around me, like I was trying to wade through an ocean instead of air. The phone seemed miles away; I moved without really thinking, my thoughts still on how here, none of those images that I saw existed--if he died, he would do so without knowing what it was like for us to get so drunk we needed to help each other walk up the sidewalk to his door, or watch _The L Word_ on mute, or know what it was really like to delete my _El Fuego Del Amor_ because I'd kidnapped his guitar . . .

We'd been friends for fifteen years, and he would have no idea. And suddenly, fifteen years didn't feel like any time at all.

* * *

In my world (under normal circumstances, I would've felt like an idiot for even thinking that) nobody would've batted an eye if I'd demanded to stay in the ambulance with House. In this world, apparently, even the paramedics had the presence of mind to ask what _I_ was doing at his apartment--why _I_ had been there to call in the first place.

Nurses I recognized stared at me as I paced in the waiting room, tie loosened and shirt unbuttoned and realizing that I was completely pathetic for having not changed my clothes, and wondering if House would be able to mock me for dressing so professional and my horrible taste in ties again.

A few Christmases ago, House had OD'd on the prescription pills of a dead man. After I shouted his name and checked him, he'd woken up, perfectly fine. I'd left, knowing he was fine--but that didn't mean I didn't have nightmares about what could've happened from time to time.

I knew people were wondering why I was the one pacing, rubbing my neck and face and feeling far too hot one second, then too cold the next. I knew that I was probably in shock, and that I should probably get a drink of water, but instead, I was busy wondering why the hospital felt so tiny suddenly, and why the world seemed to be spinning around me. I wondered if it always smelled so . . . sterile, so clean, so void of life and personality, and if the employees had always looked like empty shells with no souls. Did the fluorescent light wash me of all colour too? Would House look like them if he died?

I checked my watch a thousand times over, not really noting the time, and not checking for a certain time either, but just to see if the watch-hand was still moving--had time stopped? Would it start again? Was I stuck in this world forever, or could I go home and live a normal life where House and I didn't hate each other? Where he hadn't left a bruise on my stomach from whacking me with his cane?

I'd never told him I loved him. Once, when he'd found himself in a hospital bed, burn marks on his hand, he'd told me he loved me. I hadn't said it back, afraid he'd see right through me. Afraid that he'd be able to tell that it wasn't platonic. I should've told him. I should've told him years ago and taken a chance.

Oh, God, I was the worst friend ever.

Had I lectured this House too? Told him what a bad person he was? Riding on my perpetual high horse when I was just as screwed up as he was?

"Doctor Wilson?"

The doctor's voice yanked me back to reality and I stared at him long enough to notice he wasn't Chase or Cameron--in my reality, they would've gone out of their way to either inform me or see if I was doing all right. I tried to gauge his expression to prepare for the news--would it be good or bad? Was he dead or alive? "Is he . . ." Okay? Dead? Alive? Playing a practical joke? I couldn't finish.

"He's . . . alive. We had to pump his stomach and put him on some IV fluids, but otherwise, he's . . ." He furrowed his eyebrows. "Why were you with him?"

Well, if the doctor was asking why I was with him, then it obviously wasn't as bad as I had been making it out to be. "Can I see him?" I asked, evading his question altogether because I honestly could care less about it seeming odd that I was being cuddly with him.

"Well, we really only--"

"We're dating," I lied, knowing what he was going to tell me. I was a doctor, after all--I knew the rules. I had only made it into the back of the ambulance by demanding to be let in and by pulling rank, something I really didn't like doing.

The doctor blinked, and I wondered if he believed me. If he didn't, he did nothing to convey it. "This way," he said blandly, then led me down the halls. When we made it to his room, he pushed open the door. "I'll . . . leave you two alone," he said, but judging by the way he narrowed his eyes, I didn't think he actually believed me.

I hurried over to his bedside and stared down at him. I watched his chest to make sure it rose properly, despite the fact I could hear the machines beeping to tell me that everything was all right. He didn't look healthy, though. His skin was waxy and pale; he looked even thinner in the hospital gown under the lights and hooked up to machines than he had in my car when the streetlamps washed over him.

I ran my fingers through his hair and across his face. His lips were chapped. I ran the pad of my thumb over his mouth and felt the dry bits of skin catching. I wondered if he knew just how close he'd been to dying, or if he was still under the impression he was just high on the floor. Would he know what happened when he woke up? Would he remember my face above his, panicking?

Would he mock me for caring? My House would. I wasn't sure if I wanted this one to do that as well or not.

I pulled a chair up to his bedside and sat, clasping his hand and squeezing it. His palms were cold. I thought of his fingers stretching out over the keys of his piano, and wondered how long it had been since he'd played in this reality.

This reality.

I wanted to go home.

* * *

A/N--This chapter is shorter than I wanted, but I couldn't add anything to it without it sounding forced, so . . . as for the ODing bit, I had a friend who ODed on Lorrtab and alcohol. I'm not a doctor, so I based everything off of that. Apparently, body weight really is important. I weigh more than he does, so that's probably why I didn't OD as well. It was one of those stupid drunken things that we pretend never happened.


	7. Chapter 7

Sorry I didn't update this weekend. I didn't have a reliable internet connection.

Chapter Seven

I didn't sleep. Well, not much. I may have dozed off for a few minutes around midnight, but then one of the nurses came in to check his vitals and it woke me up. My head had been lowered on his mattress, so when I sat up the kink in my neck was horrible. I did, however, call in to tell them I couldn't come to work, and also called in House. I wondered if anyone had thought to do so before me, because certainly Cuddy would've shown up if she knew.

If I left (to go to the bathroom or because the nurse asked me to go get a cup of coffee) I came back as quickly as possible. Nobody said anything about me stroking his face or holding his hand. If they hadn't believed me when I'd first told them we were dating, they probably believed me now. They would smile knowingly at each other whenever I brushed some hair from his face, and if they walked in on me checking over his charts, they didn't seem to mind.

I thought I'd seen his eyes open a few times, but every time I double-checked they were closed, and his breathing was steady and rhythmic, so he had to have been sleeping.

When I looked at the clock and saw that it was four, I tried to stop myself from putting my forehead on his mattress, but I couldn't. I squeezed his hand into mine as I closed my eyes, promising I was only resting my head for a few seconds.

I thought I felt someone touch my hair, but I could've imagined it. It could've been the beginnings of a dream, too, because that was the last thing I remembered.

* * *

The shrill beeping noise woke me and I gasped, my heart ramming in my throat, choking me. He was flat-lining, he was dying, he was crashing, somebody had to--

I glanced at the monitors to see his steady heartbeat, and the quiet bloops.

It had been a nightmare. He was perfectly fine.

My back was sore but the sharp pains in my neck were worse. My eyelids were heavy, but I wasn't groggy. My hand was still clasped into his, his breathing was still steady, and everything was . . . Normal. Some of his colour had returned, but I wasn't sure if it had come back all the way or if he was always that pale. He wasn't sweaty anymore, though, and he looked more peaceful, so that had to be a good sign.

I stood up and walked around, if only to get my legs feeling less like rubber. I worked out the kink in my neck and popped my back. I wasn't hungry enough to take a trip to the vending machine, and the nightmare I'd had filled me with enough adrenaline to keep me from falling asleep again, so I sat down in the chair and brushed his bangs from his forehead, my fingers slipping through his strands and ghosting over his cheekbones and lips, and checking his pulse although it was unnecessary.

I glanced at the clock--just past six in the morning.

Would anybody think it strange I called in the same day House did? Well, I suppose it wouldn't matter--I'd told the doctor that I was dating him just so I could sit in his room all night. I knew how quickly rumours spread through the hospital, so by the end of the day, everybody would hear it. The funny thing was, back where I was from, more than half the staff thought we were dating anyway, and if they didn't, they knew we were closer to each other than we were to anybody else in our lives, so even if we were to start dating, they probably wouldn't have found it weird. Now, though, I could imagine it being the hottest, juiciest gossip. Everybody would be confused and startled, but wouldn't think twice about ruminating over all the "tell-tale signs" even if there hadn't been any.

It was nearly an hour later when the doors opened and I expected a nurse or doctor, but instead saw Cuddy. She didn't have bags under her eyes, but she looked guilty. "He tried to kill himself?" she asked briskly, going over to the edge of his bed and checking his chart.

"He OD'd. A bad combination of alcohol, Vicodin, and morphine, apparently." My calm tone belied how I really felt about the situation. I squeezed his hand, as if trying to reassure him I was there, even though he was asleep--so I was actually just reassuring myself.

"Are you sure he wasn't trying to kill himself?"

I looked away from her to stare at his face, brushing the back of my knuckles down his cheek. "He had morphine at his disposal, Lisa. And this is House we're talking about. If he'd wanted to kill himself, he wouldn't have failed." I looked back at her and she was staring at me strangely, but as soon as our eyes met she looked away, and back at the chart.

She nodded, her lips pursed and her eyes narrowed. She put the chart back, then stared at him. "Are you sure?"

"I'm sure. I was there. I was the one who called the ambulance."

She let out a long sigh and her chin fell to her chest. "This is my fault."

"How is this your fault? You had no . . ." The words House had slurred before passing out again repeated dully in my mind, and I thought back to what House had said to Cuddy in his office yesterday. "You fired him," I realized aloud.

She looked at the floor and I stood out of my chair, my hand ghosting over his hair of its own volition.

"You heard what he said to me in his office," she muttered.

"He talks that way to everyone!" I exclaimed, perhaps a bit louder than I wanted to.

She glared at me. "I'm his boss."

"When you hired him, you knew _exactly_ what you were getting into. You know damn well that no one else will hire him--they wouldn't back then! You can't fire him."

"I'm the Dean of Medicine; don't tell _me_ what I can and cannot do," she snapped, but she didn't sound very forceful. I had seen Cuddy when she was adamant about something, and she wasn't right now.

"What he said was uncalled for, I agree. But that's how he is. You can't expect preferential treatment just because you're his boss."

"I've dealt with that treatment for too long, Wilson. I've had enough. Do you know what he costs this hospital?"

"Firing him will cost more--to the lives that only he can save. You know he's the best damn doctor in this hospital. What he does works for him, and you know it. What he said was rude and beyond the boundaries of--of what he should've said, but you _can't_ fire him."

She shook her head. "Nobody but you will be batting an eye at the loss. I'm not even sure why _you_ care."

"Because he's a damn good doctor! Nobody else could do what he does! He's worth more than anybody else you've ever hired."

Her blue eyes took me in from head to toe, then she folded her arms. "Is that why you called in? Is that why you stayed here all night? Because he's a good doctor?"

"That's not the point I'm making. You told me yourself that if I wanted to have _any_ sort of relationship with him, that I was going to have to handle being burned. Yet, here you are, doing the _exact_ thing you tried to prevent me from doing."

"There's a difference between you dealing with him for the past day, and me dealing with him for the past two decades."

I laughed harshly at that and put my hands on my hips. I took a step forward and shook my head, still chuckling darkly. "Did I ever tell you about the time my brother Peter and I went camping?" I asked.

"I don't see how this--"

"I had come down from McGill in the summer to spend time with him and Daniel," I interrupted. She looked like she was going to talk over me, but then she closed her mouth and raised both of her eyebrows high up on her forehead. "Daniel and Peter were drunk, and using the fire to light bottle rockets. Somehow, one of them thought that the bottle rockets would fly further if they covered them in kerosene. Some of it got on Peter's sleeve, and when he leaned over the fire, his arm caught on fire. We managed to pat him out, but he was burned horribly--his shirt had literally melted _into_ his skin, and the skin was blackened and charred. We rushed him to the nearest hospital. The nurse taking care of him felt sorry for him, and spent more time than necessary checking in on him. A year and a half later, they were married."

Her eyebrows were settled back in their normal position and she unfolded her arms. "Is there a point to this story, or were you just hoping to confuse me into agreeing with you?"

"It's like what you told me yesterday. If you play with fire, you are going to get burned. But sometimes, getting burned is worth it."

Sometimes, being best friends with House really paid off--especially in times like this. I had always been pretty good with manipulation--I figured out when I was just a child that if I smiled a certain way, my mother would give in--but he had definitely refined my abilities.

She rolled her eyes and let out a sigh. She looked at the floor and shook her head slightly before she met my eyes again. "Fine. I take it back--he's not fired." She turned around and started towards the door, then she turned back to stare at me. "I don't know what you two are up to, but this is the _last_ time I do this, understand? Next time I fire him, it's permanent." With that, she left his room, shutting the door behind her.

"Is there any part of that story that's actually true?"

I turned around slowly to see him smirking at me. Keeping one hand on my hip, I used the other to rub the back of my neck. "Um . . . My brothers are named Peter and Daniel."

He smiled thinly. "I couldn't have done better myself."

I moved the chair away from its position next to the bed and back against the wall. "How long have you been awake?" I asked when I turned back to him.

"Off and on throughout the night. But, uh . . . for the past half-hour."

I remembered all of the times I squeezed his hand and touched his face and hair. I felt my cheeks burn and hated how he looked so smug. He looked away from me and stared at the ceiling. "I didn't think you were going to show," he admitted, in a voice so small he almost sounded childlike.

"Do you wish that I hadn't?"

He shifted in his bed, and then he sighed. "Let's get outta here, huh? I'm bored."

I smiled, knowing what that was House-speak for, even if he didn't know that I knew.

* * *

_Five years. He'd been married to Bonnie for five years--so why on earth did it feel more like twenty? He loved her . . . Or at least, he thought he did. He had once, at least. He remembered loving to come home to her after a long day at work and then crawling into bed beside her, smelling her hair and kissing her face. Now, though, he was starting to get bored of the constant fighting._

_Bonnie had eventually learned to hate his late hours. She hadn't minded at first--in fact, a part of him thought she had enjoyed having time to herself. She had a job too, even if she wasn't particularly good at it. They didn't need to spend every hour together. They'd had their fights, sure, but as the months wore on, it only got worse instead of better._

_He figured it really had been his fault this time. Somehow, he'd forgotten his anniversary. In his defence, it had been a long week--House had a patient that was being especially difficult, which meant that he was making life for his new team, and everyone else at the hospital, difficult too. To make matters worse, three of Wilson's patients had died, and he'd had to tell two more that they only had a few months to live. With all of the paperwork, patients, and the crap House had been pulling, it really wasn't a surprise that he'd thought it was Thursday, when in actuality it had been Friday. It wasn't that he forgot his anniversary--he had just been a whole day behind._

_Bonnie hadn't seen it that way, of course. It wasn't that she was always under the impression he was having an affair, but every once in awhile she would accuse him of cheating and for days, if she wasn't arguing with him, she was giving him the cold shoulder. He regretted telling her he'd slept with his classmate more and more each time they argued, and wondered if perhaps he should've lied to her about the divorce._

_When he showed up late for the dinner she'd planned weeks ago, and hadn't known what day it was, he'd seen her heart break by the expression on her face. He'd figured it out a few seconds too late, and she had assumed he'd been cheating on her. It had started yet another fight, and he found himself wondering if he still loved his wife, because honestly, at the moment, she felt more like a roommate._

"_Rough day?" He looked at the brunette sidling up on the stool beside him, her smoky black eye-shadow bringing out her green eyes._

_He smiled his thin, self-deprecating smile Bonnie had said was the reason she'd fallen for him, and noticed the fact he wasn't wearing his wedding ring. Most doctors were in the habit of removing their wedding rings so as not to lose it inside a patient, so it wasn't all that strange, but suddenly it felt like something he needed to notice._

_He bought her a drink or two, but not enough to get her drunk. He wasn't surprised when she asked him if he'd like to come over for 'some coffee' and for a moment he hesitated._

_He only felt mildly guilty when they tumbled to her bed a few minutes later._

* * *

House had left against medical advice, but seeing as he wasn't suicidal they couldn't force him to stay. We had to listen to them try to convince him before he just grabbed my elbow and dragged me out in the middle of a sentence.

"I wish you would've had the foresight to put the pizza in the fridge before calling 911," he said, pushing the box aside with his foot. We had taken a taxi to his place, mainly because I'd left my Volvo here, so it wasn't like I could've gone home and expected a way to work tomorrow. Not unless I felt like riding the bus, which I had no intention of doing.

I chuckled and put my hands on my hips. "The next time you OD, I'll make sure to keep that in mind."

House bent over and picked up the box of pizza, then limped (sans cane) to the garbage. "So, are we going steady?"

"What?"

"Well, you were in my room all night. You had to tell them something, and judging by the lack of any resemblance whatsoever--well, and the fact that everyone at the hospital knows us--I don't think you told them you were my long lost evil twin. So . . . are we dating?"

I rubbed the back of my neck. "That's what I told them," I admitted, not quite sure how he was going to react.

"Makes sense. You do know that tomorrow we're going to be hot gossip. Screw Brangelina; it's gonna be Hilson from now on. They'll even make shirts."

"Hilson? That sounds like a cheap hotel."

"It's the cool thing now. They merge names together. Try to keep up." He walked, teeth clenching with each step, until he was right in my personal bubble. I was used to it, so I didn't step away, and honestly, I think he was surprised, because he narrowed his eyes and looked me over. "Why'd you tell them you were my boyfriend?"

"They wouldn't let me in your room if I--"

"That's not what I meant," he interrupted, stepping even closer. "You knew I was going to be okay. You'd called the ambulance, you rode with me the whole way there, they told you they'd pumped my stomach--so why? Why spend the entire night in my hospital room? They wouldn't have thought any less of you if you hadn't stayed. I woke up a few times, and every time, you were there."

Thankfully, he left out the part about me petting his hair and holding his hand. I put my hands on my hips again and scuffed the floor. "I was . . . I was worried," I admitted, feeling my cheeks warm up again.

"Nobody's that worried unless they really love someone, or they feel guilty."

I sighed. "Guilty? It's not my fault you OD'd. That's nobody's fault but your own."

"Oh, boy, sounds like it's lecture time."

"House, you shot yourself up with morphine after a handful of Vicodin and a few shots of scotch! You almost killed yourself, and you're asking _me_ what's wrong?" Although, it was probably a bit more than a 'few' shots.

"I wasn't trying to kill myself," he snapped.

"No, but you didn't care if you lived, either. I'm not an idiot--you're not suicidal. You're just self-destructive."

"If this is what I have to listen to, then I sort of wish I _had_ been suicidal, because you're certainly making me wanna suck on the end of a barrel now."

I sighed and lifted both of my hands in surrender. "I'm not trying to lecture. I'm not the one who started this conversation in the first place."

"You're the one who keeps avoiding it. Lunch, taking me out to a diner in the middle of the night, quitting smoking . . . What's with the personality transplant? Or did you just get that stick surgically removed from your ass?"

I sighed and rolled my eyes. "It's . . . it's nothing." He raised his eyebrows high on his forehead; clearly he didn't believe me. "Look, you--you wouldn't believe me if I told you."

"That sounds like an evasion to me. People don't just start being nice to people they hate out of nowhere for no reason. You don't stop smoking and alcoholics don't just stop after two shots, either." I shifted my weight onto my other foot, unable to think of something to say. I couldn't just tell him why I'd bought lunch for him and taken him to the diner--I hadn't known I was in a different reality then. How could I explain it to him, when I wasn't sure if I understood it myself? Had I gone completely insane, or had Noel really granted my idle wish made out of anger?

He stood taller, looming over me, and I knew he was trying to intimidate me. Had I not spent so much time around him, perhaps it would've worked.

I sighed. "Can't you just accept that I want to . . . move past this, House? Must everything have some sort of ulterior motive?"

"So, what? You just woke up one day and thought, 'hey, House seems like an interesting guy . . . Maybe I should buy him lunch, even though he killed my girlfriend' and that's it? Or is this . . . something else?" He said the last part tentatively and met my eyes, ducking his head slightly. He was trying to tell me something, but I couldn't figure out what he was attempting to reference.

He almost looked vulnerable.

"You didn't kill Amber," I insisted. I hated how he had no idea what had really happened, although I suppose had I never coerced him into doing the deep brain stimulation, he would've been completely unaware of how she died. I never would've asked him had we not been friends, and he wouldn't have done it if he didn't care about me. But why hadn't he checked the autopsy report?

He narrowed his eyes slightly in the way he always did when he figured something out, although I honestly doubted he would be able to. He took a step back and furrowed his brows. "You know something I don't. About Amber. You keep insisting I didn't kill her . . . That's what this is about, isn't it?" His face fell, and he looked sick suddenly. It made sense, I suppose. He had spent how long thinking whatever it was he thought. He had no idea what had happened that night.

I opened my mouth, not sure what I was going to say.

"What do you know? Tell me," he demanded. I looked at the floor and rested my hands on my hips again, scuffing the floor. How much could I tell him without being too knowing? And what if it had been different here, anyway? "Did we . . . Did her and I, uh . . ."

I remembered the both of us wondering if perhaps they had had an affair. I shook my head. "No. I, um . . . When I was cleaning, I found a note. She, uh . . . wrote that she was picking you up. From a bar."

He stared at me, as if trying to find proof on my face that I was lying to him. Finally he took a step back and went over to the couch. He sat down, staring at the blank TV, lips drawn into a frown. "I must've called her to pick me up. She was the only one on my team that wasn't a complete moron." He leaned forward and covered his forehead with his hand, resting there.

"You weren't having an affair, and . . . It wasn't your fault she died. You couldn't have prevented it. Her flu pills, they . . . Her kidneys couldn't . . . Amantadine poisoning." I cleared my throat, trying to stop my tears from falling. I could feel them burning the edges of my eyes, and I swallowed the lump that appeared in my throat.

"How could you know that?"

Oh, right. He had figured that out during the deep brain stimulation. "I . . . found a prescription for flu pills."

"It makes sense. I should've . . ." He shook his head and it slowly turned into a nod. "So that's why. The lunches, the diner . . . You knew we weren't having an affair. You accused me and I couldn't deny it, and so . . ." I couldn't tell if he sounded disappointed or just upset at the memory.

"I'm sorry," I muttered.

I could just imagine it. I, not knowing why House and Amber would've been together on the bus, had wondered if they might have had an affair. Suddenly, it explained why all of Amber's things had been gone--not because House had rid me of them, but because I'd been angry at the thought of her cheating on me with the man I, apparently, had never liked.

"Don't be sorry. If she'd wanted to, I wouldn't have said no," he told me.

"You had feelings for her." As much as I had tried to make it sound like a question, it had come out like a statement.

He pulled his head away from his palm and glanced at me, then down at the floor. "She was the only person on my team that wasn't an idiot," he evaded, and that was all I needed to hear. He had had feelings for her--or, at least, had respected her. And apparently she'd been on his team. It explained why Thirteen hadn't been to work since I'd found myself in this strange universe.

I walked over to the couch, sitting down beside him. He looked at me, frowned, then scooted an inch or so away. I hadn't realized how close we were. I moved away from him an inch, scratching my temple as I looked away. Over the years, we had moved closer together when we sat, and I hadn't stopped to think about that.

"It wasn't fair of me to . . . react how I did after she died," I told him, and oddly, this I didn't have to lie about. Perhaps I had reacted differently, but I had still been unfair. I suppose my psychiatrist would have thought otherwise, but she couldn't understand everything. Hell, nobody could ever truly understand how we were together--sometimes, even I didn't. All I knew was that without him, I was miserable, and when I was with him, I wasn't.

"Sure it was. You thought I was diddling your girlfriend. You loved her."

"I really did."

"Hell, maybe there would've been wedding bells in your future. You think third time's a charm?"

Third time? So, what, I hadn't ever married Julie? Well, I suppose that made sense, seeing as she'd been House's physical therapist. Had I never spent so much time over there, I never would've fallen for her. And marrying Amber . . . I hadn't wanted to jump into that sort of relationship with her, and I doubted she had either, and so neither of us had talked about marriage. But a few months later, a year, who knows? Perhaps we would've been engaged. Although, as I was learning quite thoroughly at the moment, it wasn't best to ruminate on what could've been.

"She was exactly what I needed, and everything I wanted." I furrowed my eyebrows when I remembered House telling me we'd been sleeping together. It made sense. Of course I was attracted to her--she was everything my best friend was, wrapped in a woman's body. I'd loved her as her own person, of course, but I had also loved House. It still stung when I thought of her and how, out of all my relationships, she had been the most likely to succeed.

"Yeah, only 'cause she was me," House teased, and I gaped at him. Here, too? "Oh, don't deny it."

"I wasn't going to," I rushed, just surprised that even in this reality he'd somehow realized that.

"Good. She was a cutthroat pixie, but I guess it worked for her. Worked for you too, apparently."

He wasn't looking at me. He stared at the blank television, lips pulled tight and skin pale, and I wished that he didn't look so sick.

"I should probably go home," I decided, realizing that while in my reality House would've been more than glad to let me stay over all day, this House didn't even know me. Bringing up Amber had made it a bit awkward, too.

He put his hand on my knee and pressed down, preventing me from standing up. "You didn't get any sleep last night," he reasonably pointed out, and I relaxed deeper into the cushions, realizing how tired I was.

The sleep I had gotten had been broken by swift nightmares of him dying, or because leaning forward with my forehead against his mattress had been hell on my neck. His thumb stroked my knee so briefly and slightly I almost thought I had imagined it. I opened my eyes and looked at him. He was staring at his hand, but as if he could sense that I was staring at him, he tilted his head up and our eyes locked.

He used my thigh for leverage and stood, wobbling the slightest bit. I moved to steady him, but a second later he seemed to have found his balance and I settled back into the cushions. "Goodnight," he muttered, and I watched him retreat to his bedroom, grabbing his cane on the way.

I swallowed the lump in my throat, then leaned against the back of the couch, closing my eyes.

* * *

_Had Wilson known voting to keep House at the hospital would have cost him his position on the board, he wouldn't have done it. He'd been surprised to see Cuddy raise her hand, after all the rallying she'd done over the years to keep him there. He figured, perhaps, that Vogler's money was ruling her decisions, and Wilson couldn't blame her--it was quite a lot of money that she could use for plenty of things._

_He knew everyone had been surprised to see him look Vogler in the eyes and say; "Opposed." Out of everyone in the hospital, Wilson had been the one to argue with House the most (besides Cuddy, obviously.) His office was right beside House's, and the two of them had never once gotten along. And yet, why would they be surprised? He'd taken House's caseload and clinic hours, despite the fact he'd called on his honeymoon, and broken into his home. Why? Because House was a damn good doctor._

_Having his office right beside House's, the diagnostic room the only thing between them, he'd seen firsthand how obsessive he could get with his patients. He'd seen how many times House had been talking to one of his team, or Cuddy, or even him, and had sprinted off (as best as he could with a limp) to save the patient with a last minute diagnosis. He diagnosed and saved patients that nobody else could._

_He'd even told Vogler that. "He diagnoses cases that nobody else could--maybe he doesn't take all of the cases he should, but the ones he doesn't take, they can be easily diagnosed by anybody else. But the ones he takes? Nobody else could do what he does."_

_He had wanted to tell the power hungry bastard that the only reason he had a problem with House was because he didn't wear a lab coat. That if he actually cared about the hospital, and the patients within, then he'd be glad to keep House hired. He wanted to tell Vogler that while he was off trying his hardest to treat the hospital like it was an office, or some sort of business, that that wasn't all it was. Treating money like business was one thing--treating hundreds of sick, dying people like they were numbers was something else. But he didn't. Instead he kept his reasons completely diplomatic._

_Wilson had always been sympathetic. He had been one of the people that had become a doctor to help people, and not for the money. When he saw a smile on a patient's face, it reminded him why he'd gone to school for as long as he had; why he'd suffered through med school. And as much as he hated House, and as much as they got into arguments and as often as the diagnostician wasted him time, he couldn't deny that House was a far better doctor than even he was--he wasn't ashamed to admit it. Even if the asshole popped pills like they were candy and came to work high more often than not, he still managed to save nearly every one of the cases he took on, and if he didn't save them, he figured out what had killed them, which was more than what most doctors could say. Wilson respected him as a doctor, and respected what he did for his patients--that was it. Just because he didn't like the man, didn't mean he couldn't think about the decision set before him by Vogler objectively._

_But had he known Vogler would turn it around and decide to put him on the chopping block, he would've raised his hand along with everybody else. He knew that everyone on the board liked him--but not as much as they hated House. And none of them were objective enough to think as Wilson had, and consider the patients. No, they would only think of getting rid of the asshole with the cane, and earning the money. Now that they knew how Vogler would treat them if they voted against his wishes, they also had fear to add to the mix. Fear of losing their own jobs._

"_If I'd known you were going to dismiss me, I would've voted otherwise," Wilson had told him quickly._

"_So you'll vote differently tomorrow, then?" Vogler had asked him, and Wilson, not one wanting to be fired over House (he didn't respect him _that_ much) agreed._

_Now Wilson was pacing around in his office, hands alternating between running through his hair and settling on his hips. He wanted a drink, but unlike some other doctors in the hospital, he didn't smuggle drugs and alcohol into his office. As soon as he got off of work, though, he was going straight to the bar._

_He glanced down at his left hand to note whether or not his wedding ring was on. It wasn't on, and he really couldn't remember the last time he'd even worn it. He'd managed five years without slipping, but once he had, it was almost as if something had been unleashed. He didn't even like the women he slept with more than he liked Bonnie--he just knew how to play the game. He knew what questions to ask, how long to hold eye contact, whether or not the girl was interested in a one night stand, and anything else he needed in order to find himself drunkenly stumbling into her room an hour later._

_He always hated himself the next morning, and when the guilt consumed him, he would lavish Bonnie with gifts, too afraid to admit the truth, but only because that had caused his divorce last time. He could feel it bubbling underneath the surface though, and it wasn't a question of if he would admit it, but when._

_He told himself he wouldn't cheat tonight--that if he went to the bar, he would take a cab home and sleep next to his wife. He wondered if he would eventually stop telling himself that after awhile, or if he would somehow manage to keep his libido under control._

_Bonnie and him rarely spoke to one another, and they would go weeks without sex. When they did have sex, he made sure she was satisfied, but he never felt fulfilled. Sex had never been a problem for them, but now it was just getting rarer and rarer for them to have it. She was so quiet and uninteresting. She'd been in a bad situation when they'd met, and he had been attracted to her demure attitude, but now he just wanted something else--someone with a bit more fire, a bit more dominance, perhaps . . ._

_He was constantly walking on eggshells around her, too afraid that if she saw more than one side of him, she would leave him. He didn't want to raise his voice--it might shatter her. He began to wonder if she had ever really known him, and had only married who she thought he was. Then he started to wonder if he even knew himself._

_The door opened without a warning knock, and he spun around to face House, not even needing to guess who it was. House shut the door behind himself, looking Wilson over. "I heard what happened at the board meeting."_

"_How did y--you know what? Never mind; I don't care how you know."_

_House shifted his weight onto his other foot, but Wilson wasn't sure if it was to circulate his legs to prevent pain, or if because he was feeling awkward about the situation. "Nice to see that someone in this hospital has his head placed on his shoulders, and not somewhere two feet southward. Didn't expect that person to be you, but hey, I take it where I can get it."_

_Wilson laughed humourlessly, and it shocked him at how dark and harsh it sounded. "I wasn't doing it for you."_

"_I know."_

"_And I nearly lost my job because of it. The only reason I'm even still here is because I promised to vote differently tomorrow."_

_Their eyes met and it was like electricity charged the room around them. Wilson had seen his eyes before, but they had never locked like this. It was unnerving, and for some reason, there was a fluttering in his stomach he couldn't explain. House tapped the cane against the floor and bit his lip. After a second, he smirked. "You'll vote the same," he promised darkly, the slid out of his office, as if he'd never been there in the first place._

_That night, Wilson got drunk, but he declined the offer to go home with the brown-eyed, bleached beauty who sat down beside him. He went home happy and kissed Bonnie breathless until she rolled on top of him and reminded herself why she stayed married to him._

_The next day, Cuddy refused to vote against House, and Wilson was only mildly shocked to find that he had broken his promise to Vogler, and voted to keep House hired again. Vogler left, taking his money with him. Later, when Wilson was in his office doing paperwork, House poked his head in just to tell him; "I told you so" and Wilson threw his box of pencils at the door when he closed it behind him._

_That night, he wasn't even drunk when he stumbled his way through a strange apartment, kissing a woman whose name was completely inconsequential. He tried not to focus on the fact she had nearly the same shade of eye colour as House._

* * *

A/N--Can I just say I loved writing the past sequences? It was like writing two stories in one!


	8. Chapter 8

Sorry it took a week for me to update, but I was busy doing stuff with my family for Thanksgiving and I thought that since I was busy that my readers would be too, and I wouldn't want to interrupt family time. I hope y'all had a good Thanksgiving as I did, and I hope this chapter makes up for the lack of updates.

Chapter Eight

When I woke up, I was wrapped in a blanket that hadn't been on the couch when I'd fallen asleep, and there was a pillow situated underneath my head. Either I had gotten up and grabbed them in my sleep, or House had done it for me. I was sure House had done it, but I wasn't going to call attention to it.

It was early afternoon by the time I woke up, and I sat up, rubbing my eyes. I let out a loud yawn and scratched the side of my face. I realized I was still wearing the clothes I'd worn yesterday, and that I probably didn't smell very great, either. My tie was half undone, my shirt was un-tucked and some of my buttons weren't buttoned. I was sure my clothes were in the need of a good ironing, and I only had one sock on. The other one must've been sucked into the depths of House's couch, along with candy wrappers and loose change.

I rolled out of bed and padded over to his bedroom door. I rapped against the wood a few times before turning the knob and opening it enough to poke my head in. He was sitting with his back against the headboard, clutching his thigh, jaw clenched and sweat pouring down his pallid face.

"House, are you--"

"I'm fine. What the hell do you want?" he asked, massaging his leg, his thumb digging into the scar.

"Do you . . . need something?"

"Wouldn't mind my thigh muscle back, now that you mention it. Think you can get me a new one? No? Well, then, I'd settle for what you came bursting into my room for so you can leave me alone."

"Have you taken a Vicodin?" I asked, forgoing my original topic of needing to take a shower.

House growled, then threw the bottle of Vicodin at my face. I dodged my head aside just in time and it hit the door before hitting the ground with a thunk. "What the hell do you think?!" he shouted.

I bent down and picked it up, just to notice that it was empty. Sighing, I left the room and went into his kitchen, going directly to the stash that even my House didn't know I was aware of. I had found it when I was making dinner for him after Julie left me and I'd been staying with him, and I just hadn't told him I knew about it. I grabbed the bottle, noticing the prescribing doctor had been Cuddy, and checked the expiration date--it was still a few months away.

I walked back into the room without knocking and tossed it at him. If he wondered how I'd known where it was, he didn't say or do anything to show it. Instead he screwed off the lid and popped a few pills, dry-swallowing them expertly. I did notice he took more pills than I was used to him taking, but I didn't say anything about it. "What did you want?" he asked, still holding his thigh, closing his eyes against the pain, the now-capped orange bottle lying beside him on the mattress.

"Would you mind if I used your shower?" I asked, my voice quieter than I had wanted it to be.

"Don't use all the hot water."

"Thank you," I murmured, then left his room. The darkness of it had only cast shadows over his face, making his eyes and cheeks look more sunken in than I was used to.

I went into the bathroom and leaned against the door, closing my eyes as I leaned my head against the wood. It was cool against my back, and solid, and I pushed my body harder against it, so that it pressed against my sore shoulder blades. After a minute or so I opened my eyes, then moved over to the sink. I rolled up my sleeves and turned the faucet on, filling my palms with water and splashing my face.

I looked up into the mirror, the light shining off of the water as it dripped, and for the first time since I'd found myself in the this new reality, I really looked at myself. I was thinner, but I also looked older. There were wrinkles around my mouth and eyes that hadn't been there before, and although my cheekbones were more prominent, my skin wasn't as tan. My teeth weren't as white, and my shirt hung loosely over my collarbone. I used my fingers to push my lips around, exposing my gums. They were a darker red, and my lips were chapped.

It wasn't anything really noticeable, until I looked for it. Not as noticeable a difference as House, but still there. I looked mostly the same, but there were enough differences to bug me.

I stared at myself in the mirror as I got undressed--it was like watching a twin, but not my reflection. I felt disconnected somehow, like I was still in a dream, and maybe that's all this was--maybe I would wake up next to Amber's pillow, House demanding to be taken to a post-Christmas dinner. I had never been the type of person to have incredibly long or vivid dreams, and this certainly didn't feel like a dream, but one could hope.

The nearly-faded bruises near my collarbone weren't actually bruises, but hickies, upon closer inspection. I thought back to the hangover I'd woken up with, and pinched the bridge of my nose.

The clothes I took off were shed to the floor, and I kicked them aside. I stepped into the hot shower, wincing until my skin got used to the temperature, and lathered up some woodsy soap on a washcloth, sliding it over my body, cleaning myself of sweat and sterile cleansers that reminded me of linoleum and bright fluorescent lights. There were thin, pink scars on the inside of my thighs that looked like old cut wounds. They were jagged and crossed over one another, and my heart sank when I realized the implications of that. An inch or so down my thigh from the pink cuts were jagged white ones--older scars.

My mind flashed back to a few psychology classes I had taken when I was in school, and a few articles I read on the subject when a leukaemia patient of mine had been caught cutting herself. Most patients cut to relieve emotion pain--apparently, it cause endorphins to be released. Some cut for the same reasons many people with eating disorders forced themselves to vomit--because they felt out of control, and they needed to control something. I knew that, as morbid as it sounded, cutting and self-mutilation was becoming more popular among teenagers, and more of a trend or way of expressing oneself than an addiction, which most people felt cutting turned out to be.

Why would I do it? To control my life? To relieve stress? Because I was addicted to it? I already smoked (although I had no idea how often I did so) and I was most likely an alcoholic, but why cut myself? How long had I been doing it?

When I soaped myself down, I felt more scars, like thin, long lines raised against the smooth surface of my skin. There were some behind my knees and on my chest (I couldn't see the ones on my chest, but I could feel them) and I wondered, how many hadn't scarred?

I habitually reached for the shampoo I usually used to find that it wasn't there. It was watermelon-scented, but still managed to have a masculine smell to it. Suddenly, it made sense as to why it was always there whenever I had to take a shower at House's--he had bought it for me. After all, now that I thought on it, he certainly hadn't had it until I'd moved in with him after Julie left, and I'd accidentally left it in his bathroom.

I used House's shampoo instead, although it made me feel a bit awkward to do so. I closed my eyes when the smell of it washed over me, recognizing it from smelling it on House, although not nearly as strongly as I was smelling it now.

When I rinsed my hair free of soap and conditioner, I let the hot water slide across my body for a minute, relaxing me, and then I turned it off, shivering at the wave of cold air that hit me. I pulled aside the shower curtain and stepped out, grabbing the nearest towel and drying myself off. I wrapped it around my waist and when I saw that the clothes I'd left on the bathroom floor were gone, only to be replaced by clothes folded neatly on the toilet seat, I grinned.

Even though it felt a bit strange, I slipped into the thin pyjama bottoms he'd given to me. My heart skipped a beat when I recognized them from seeing them on him, and that I was now putting them on. It felt intimate, somehow, although I doubted he would see it as such. I put on the black tee-shirt I'd seen him wear a few times, and my throat dried when I recognized the scent of fabric softener.

I looked at myself in the mirror when I stood in front of the sink; looked at the reflection that wasn't quite mine. I looked at my slightly yellowing teeth again, trying to taste the nicotine on my tongue, and hoping that the reason I couldn't taste it was because I hadn't smoked for a long time, and not because I was used to it. Did I smell like cigarette smoke? Could people smell it on my breath, or taste it when I kissed them? I pulled the collar of the shirt aside and looked at the almost-gone hickies that dotted the skin. Had she kissed my chest because she couldn't stand kissing my lips?

Shaking my head, I stepped away from the sink and opened the door. House stood on the other side, hand half-raised, as if he'd been about ready to open the door. He lowered his hand and blinked at me. "You take a long shower for a guy. Busy jerking off?"

"No," I honestly told him, but whether or not he believed me he didn't say.

He didn't try to hide the fact he was looking me over. His blue eyes roamed over my body, and I could feel the heat on them as if they were a flame. When his eyes finally made it back to mine, I felt my heart fluttering weakly. He lowered his chin to his chest and stared at my damp hair, and suddenly, I wanted to brush it off of my forehead, although it hadn't bugged me before.

He moved forward and I stepped to the side, letting him pass, and our chests brushed against each other. He stopped in the doorframe, eyes still focused on mine. We were still both standing in the doorframe, our chests brushing each time we took in a breath.

"Can you smell the nicotine on my breath?" I asked, only because I needed to say something. The silence had bugged me.

"I thought you only smoked when one of your kids died?"

"Oh, no, I didn't smo--not in your bathroom. I just . . . Can you smell it?"

He raised his eyebrows and leaned forward, nose closer to mine. I breathed out delicately, not knowing why we were both staring at each other, and wondering if he could hear my heartbeat from where he stood, because it sounded like someone was pounding on bongos to me. I heard him sniff, and when he tilted his head to the side, I almost leaned up to kiss him.

He shook his head. He opened his mouth and I saw a flash of pink tongue along his bottom lip, but then his lips were pressed tightly together again. "You smell fine," he muttered, then stepped fully into the bathroom.

I walked out into the hallway, and he shut the door a bit louder than I had expected.

I swallowed the lump in my throat, but it really didn't calm my nerves any.

* * *

_Wilson sat at his desk, pinching the bridge of his nose. Out of all the patients House's faith healer had to go and touch, why did it have to be Grace? Why did it have to be the one he was actually having a relationship with? He was just as curious as to how the teen had managed to force her tumour to shrink, but he wasn't going to obsess over it._

_Wilson had managed to go a few months without making a drunken mistake with some blue-eyed girl (he refused to acknowledge the fact that all the girls had vivid blue eyes meant something) and had been determined to put his life back on track. He'd told himself that he was through with the one night stands, and that he needed to pay attention to his wife. He wasn't even sure if he loved her anymore, but a marriage took work, dammit--he didn't need to give up on it just because they'd been having fights recently. She was starting to notice his strange behaviour, and the accusations had started again. This time, however, she was actually right._

_It was the little things that kept him staying. She would smile at him, or massage his shoulders after a long day at work. Instead of being angry when she tasted alcohol on his breath, she would ask him if everything was all right, and get them both a glass of wine. Those moments were few and far in between, but it kept him from giving in. He didn't want to be a failure at marriage, yet again. What would his family think when they found out he'd cheated on his second wife, too? He rarely talked to them as it was (he felt too guilty to call them, in fear he'd slip and end up confessing everything to his mom) and if they had this to add to their list of reasons to be disappointed, he didn't know what he would do._

_And then had to go and give Grace a ride home. He'd felt bad for her, was all. It wasn't that he didn't feel bad for all of his terminal patients, but there was something about the way she stared at him that bothered him. As if she had accepted it too quickly--as if she hadn't really wanted to live. It had been months since he'd had sex with his wife, and since he had sworn off cheating, it wasn't like he was getting it anywhere else, either._

_It wasn't only about the sex. Had it been about that, then he would've gone to the bar with the purpose of flirting with a beautiful young woman. Now, though, when he went to the bar, it was just to drink. Sometimes, it was the only escape he had from his cold marriage, and as difficult as it was to refuse to go home with some of the girls who offered, he had managed to do it, and that was all that mattered. But he _knew_ Grace. He knew what it was like to watch her cry, to see her pray to a God he wasn't even sure he believed in anymore, and to see her laugh and listen to her talk about all the things she had wanted to do and would probably never get a chance to. It was the intimacy he'd wanted from her, and it was the hidden relationship that kept him going back. It was more than sex--they were dating._

_But now, she was leaving. She was going on her dream vacation, and all he could worry about was if the tumour grew back to its original size, or if being in another country stressed her to the point she couldn't handle it. If she died, he wouldn't be able to hold her hand as she did so. She would be alone in another country--but most of all, he'd be just as alone, and at the moment, he wasn't sure if he was worried for her, or himself._

_He had stayed late--not because he needed to, but because if Bonnie asked why he looked like he'd been crying, he didn't know if he could lie to her. If he told her that he was cheating on her with one of his patients, his marriage was doomed for sure, and he would be branded a failure, once again._

_Sometimes, he wondered why he cared if they stayed married._

_The door to his office burst open and slammed shut. It shouldn't have surprised him to see House standing there, but it shocked him anyway. He knew House had left for home hours ago--he'd seen him clock out. Had he come back because he'd had one of his epiphanies about his patient? If so, then why was he striding into his office instead of his patient's room? Why wasn't he busy challenging God like he had been ever since he'd taken the case?_

"_You're having an affair with Grace," he accused, face twisted into an ugly scowl._

_He stomach fell to the floor. "What? How the hell did you figure that out?" There was no point in trying to deny it._

"_You left some clothes at her place. You're the only person I know that wears hideous ties and has pocket protectors." He went to ask why House knew he'd left some clothes there, but he talked over him before he could even open his mouth. "I had Chase describe the clothes to me. You sick bastard. So, what, did you just get off on the fact she was dying and you wouldn't have to worry about a corpse blabbing, or do you just diddle everything with tits?"_

"_That's not what it was about," Wilson managed through clenched teeth._

"_What then? Do you just like sucking the marrow out of already terminal patients? Not getting enough thrusting exercise at home and figure, oh, what the hell, I'm surrounded by girls at the hospital willing to drop to their knees to repay their ever-so-thoughtful saviour? That how you take your thanks?"_

"_It wasn't about the sex!" he shouted, standing suddenly, slamming his hands down on the desk._

"_Oh, did you two just hold hands and skip through the tulips? I'm sorry to have misjudged the situation." House limped around the desk and loomed over him. _

_Wilson took a step back, not wanting a repeat of the night of his bachelor party. "House--"_

"_You know, you prance around this hospital on your high horse, acting like you're the damn messiah, and everybody loves you for it. You flirt with the nurses, you come to work hung-over, and everybody gives you the benefit of the doubt--oh, poor Wilson, Bonnie isn't paying him enough attention--oh, poor Wilson, two of his patients died. Well you know what? I see right through your bullshit. I know you're just as screwed up as the rest of us--if not more so. Somehow, I have the feeling that Grace wasn't the first girl you've pounded into the mattress--oh, I'm sorry, was pounding too hard of a verb? Made love to--does that sound better?"_

"_You know _nothing_ about me."_

"_Well, I'm starting to think that nobody here does. But I do know one thing--the ethics board really wouldn't like you playing Florence Nightingale with a dying woman."_

_Wilson's knees felt weak, and he felt his stomach churn unpleasantly. House's electric-blue eyes locked onto his, and his lungs ceased to function. Sometimes, Wilson woke in a cold sweat, those blue eyes the only thing he could remember about his dream--or were they nightmares? He could never remember enough to tell. "You . . . You're going to tell them?" He hated how weak he sounded._

"_The only reason I still work here is because of you--I'm not going to go running to Mommy and Daddy all because you can't keep it in your pants. Not unless you do something to piss me off, that is. Understand?" He raised his eyebrows briefly, and loomed over Wilson again, their bodies so close he could almost feel his shirt against him._

_Fire surged through him when he understood what House was implicating. "You're _blackmailing_ me?"_

"_I like to think of it as saving your ass while setting up an insurance policy, but think whatever you like. You can lie to your adoring masses at this hospital, and you can lie to your little ferret of a wife, but you can't lie to me. Especially when it comes to sex."_

"_You're an asshole," Wilson replied, but only because it was the only thing he could think of._

_House didn't seem to have heard him. Instead, he was looking at something past Wilson--something far away, it seemed, and a moment later, he bolted out of the room, slamming the door shut behind him._

_Wilson shakily sat in his chair, then buried his face in his palms. All he should've seen was blackness, but instead, House's eyes swam before him, like lightning during a thunderstorm._

* * *

House didn't ask me to, but I was getting hungry, so I ordered some pizza. I would've cooked, but I didn't know if he'd appreciate me rummaging around through his cupboards, looking for something I could throw together.

When House walked out of the bathroom, his hair wet and his clothes sticking to his damp body, I smiled at him. "I ordered pizza," I revealed.

"Well, you're paying for it. Your wallet's on the coffee table."

I nodded, glancing at where he pointed. He sat beside me on the couch, still further away than I was used to. I glanced at the clock on the wall to try and guess around how much longer it would be before the delivery boy showed up, then I looked over at the piano, which he apparently used to put his mail. "You play piano?" I gestured at it.

He scoffed. "Not since my infarction."

I translated that into 'not since Stacy left' and I frowned. I remembered he hadn't played for a month after she left, and it was only after I had coaxed him to that he finally sat on the bench and started plunking away at the keys. A few lazily played songs melted into lengthy, more complicated pieces, and I remembered watching his tension visibly leave him, and when he looked over his shoulder to see me smile, he'd grinned for the first time since the infarction.

I had never been there to coax him.

I had taken a few lessons when I was in high school--nothing serious, just a friend I had could play, and he'd taught me a few basic things about it. My grandfather had given my mother a piano in his will, and so for a few months I'd plunked away at it, trying to learn it half-heartedly with my friend by my side. After awhile I'd lost interest, but I remembered how relaxing it could be. I hadn't played for years, except for a few clumsy songs here and there on my mom's piano when I visited.

Thinking of my mom reminded me that I'd told my assistant to tell my parents I was out when they called, and then I thought about my niece's birthday. I hoped that Peter had the same phone number.

"Mind if I play something?" I asked hesitantly. Watching House stretch his fingers out over the keys and play had always mesmerized me, and had managed to relieve my stress, even on the worst of days. It seemed odd the think that he had continued playing because of me, and I wondered if oftentimes, he had played for me. Maybe I could do the same for him here--if he allowed me, anyway.

"Go for it." He waved his hand dismissively.

I stood up off the couch and went over to the piano. I pulled out the bench and sat on it, staring at the dust the covered the wood. I lifted the cover and stared at the white keys. I started plucking randomly at them, cringing when I heard how out of tune they were.

I closed my eyes, trying to remember how to play _Moonlight Sonata,_ but after a few seconds, I settled on _Fur Elise_ instead, as juvenile a song that was. My fingers tripped over themselves at first, but after the first few notes I started to remember. I smiled when I pressed down on the pedal, listening to it echo throughout the apartment, and when I got to a point where I couldn't remember what came next (and after hitting a few wrong notes--either that, or it was more out of tune than I thought) I slid into what I remembered of _Moonlight Sonata._

Surprisingly, once I started playing it, it wasn't as difficult as I had thought it would be. I had messed up a few times and started over, but I was smiling, not sure why it relaxed me as much as it did.

Somehow, I started playing _Auld Land Syne._ For some reason, it felt like a fitting song to play, and it sounded more melancholic when I played it than I had ever remembered it sounding. Perhaps it was just because New Year's was a few days away (today was the twenty-eighth) but I couldn't help but play it a few more times.

"You're hitting the wrong note," House said, right behind me.

I jumped and my fingers struck a few discordant notes, and when I looked up to see his face above mine, I could see his smirk. He tilted his head so he was staring down at me, his smirk more noticeable. "If you're going to keep playing that song over and over, you might as well know what the hell you're doing." He hunched over, placing his hands on mine. His skin was cool, and I could feel his chest against my spine. I stared back at the piano, if only so I couldn't see his eyes. He was pressing against my hands, as if pinning them there.

"How long has it been since you played?" he asked as he stroked my hand curiously.

"Awhile. I had a friend teach me a few songs when I was in high school, but that was it."

"You're holding your wrist wrong," he muttered. I felt more than heard his voice, vibrating through my back. He grabbed my wrists and moved them into the proper position, and I wondered if he could feel how erratic my pulse was. "Now, put your hands on mine."

I nodded and did as he said. House and I had never been this physically close for a prolonged amount of time. Sure, our sides pressed against one another when we sat or walked, but this was different.

His fingers danced along the keys easily with mine on top, as if it were as simple as breathing. He was going purely on motor memory, I knew, but still, I couldn't help but be impressed.

I focused on the keys, and tried not to think about how his breath was skirting along my scalp, or how I could smell his soap and shampoo. I couldn't help but wonder if my House would do this for me, or if it was because of our years of friendship and forced habits that he considered it crossing the line. This House hadn't made lines yet--not with me. Or if he had, I had erased them the moment I bought him lunch.

"Now you try," he ordered a moment later, and stepped away from my back. I felt cold and unsupported without him behind me.

I cleared my throat, and held my wrists like he had instructed. I played through the song once, and judging by the fact he didn't say anything, I figured I'd played it correctly.

When the song ended, I kept my hands still, then pressed a random key. A second later, I started playing one half of _Heart and Soul, _and House chuckled behind me. "Oh, you tease. Now you have to scoot over," he said.

I scooted over so that I was nearly toppling onto the floor, and he sat beside me, holding his leg while he got himself situated. Our legs were crushed together, and our elbows were grinding against one another. It was far from comfortable, but once he started playing his half, I started playing mine. My fingers tripped over themselves a few times, and every time they did, House shot an insult at me, but nothing vicious.

He started doing a more complicated version that made my half sound like an idiot child was playing the only song he knew, but I didn't mind. My House and I had never done this. I had never asked to play his piano, though, and perhaps that was why. If (hopefully when) I got back, maybe I would gather up to courage to ask.

He hooked his ankle around mine and I screwed up, the song sounding briefly discordant. He chuckled at me, but didn't remove his foot. Was he flirting with me? Or was he just messing with me? Was that one and the same with him? But House was straight . . . wasn't he? Or had I just assumed because we'd been friends so long and nothing had ever happened?

His fingers were like spiders along the keys, and I looked at his hands, relying on motor memory to play my half. I was too aware of the weight pressed against my ankle and how thin our pyjama pants were. Without meaning to, I curled my foot around his, my heart beating harder in my chest. When he didn't shove me away, I relaxed a little bit, feeling the bottom of his foot brush the top of my bare toes, our skin soft against one another. His foot pushed my cuff upward a bit, sneaking under the pyjama fabric, and my breath caught.

His fingers danced closer to mine, and instead of going back over the keys and down the other direction, they pressed against mine, as if trying to get to the keys underneath. For a minute I thought maybe I had been playing over on his side, and then his fingers slid between mine. They squeezed my hand and I took in a sharp breath.

He _was_ flirting with me. Here, we didn't have a history of being completely straight, platonic best friends, and somehow, that had progressed into actual flirting. Had it? We flirted with each other often, but usually in a joking way--well, at least, I had thought it was joking . . . It hadn't exactly been as such on my end, but perhaps I had misunderstood his intentions.

Or maybe I was just overreacting in _this_ situation.

The house was incredibly quiet without the piano blaring. I had never really noticed how quiet it was. Then again, there had always been something for me to listen to--the TV, House rambling, us eating, him playing the piano, our conversations . . .

The whooshing sound in my ears accompanied the pounding of my heartbeat, and I wondered what he would do if I leaned over and kissed him. I didn't do it, however, because I just wasn't that brave.

The knocks on the door made me jump, and I had no idea how long we had been sitting there. I got off the bench and retrieved my wallet from the coffee table, body thrumming with electricity and heat. I paid for the pizza and gave the delivery boy a tip. House was making his way over to the couch when I turned.

He pushed aside some mail on the coffee table and gestured towards it. I placed the box in the area he had cleared and sat on the middle cushion, still in the habit of sitting too close. He didn't pull away--instead, he turned on the television and grabbed a slice of pizza.

We watched _The L Word_ reruns on mute, making up our own dialogue in falsetto voices. We didn't talk about what had happened on the piano--in fact, it might as well have never happened. That, I was used to.

After we ate, though, I went home, and when I crawled into the bed Amber and I used to share, I wished that I had stayed the night at his place instead.


	9. Chapter 9

**Note:** I just want to say that, because of the previous chapter, I do not condone self-injurious behaviour. It is something that people do to feel in control of their lives or because they are depressed. I am sorry if I offended anyone who has/had problems with it.

Chapter Nine

_When Wilson had walked into Cuddy's office to ask for more permission to do an experimental test on a clinic patient, he hadn't expected to see House tugging on a locked drawer. "What the hell are you doing?" he asked._

_House hurriedly got off of his knees, and it took Wilson a second to remember he didn't need a cane anymore. "Trying to get under Cuddy's desk. Far easier to perform oral sex that way."_

"_You were trying to open that drawer," he pointed out, narrowing his eyes suspiciously._

"_Why'd you ask if you knew the answer?"_

"_Why were you trying to open the drawer?" he amended._

"_That's where she keeps her condoms. I ran out, so I thought I could borrow some. Hey, speaking of condoms, you think you could write me a prescription for Vicodin?"_

_Wilson blinked a few seconds, not understanding his train of thought at all. "How do condoms have anything to do with pain medication?"_

"_They both make Friday night parties more interesting. So, whaddaya say, ol' buddy ol' pal? Care to write up a scrip?"_

"_I thought the ketamine treatment fixed your leg?"_

"_Really? So the big ass hole in my thigh is completely gone? The wonders of modern medicine." He walked over to Wilson. The fact he wasn't limping was still something Wilson was having a hard time getting used to. "My leg hurt earlier. Cuddy won't write a prescription for me."_

_Wilson raised his hand, palm facing outward, and shook his head slightly. "Wait, let me understand this. You haven't used your leg properly for at least six years, and after jogging an obscene amount of miles after walking as little as possible, your leg hurt." House blinked at him, apparently not very pleased with Wilson's description of the events. "This may be a dire situation. Have you considered amputation? Another surgery? I wouldn't want something like this to go unnoticed."_

"_Just write a damn scrip, okay?"_

"_House, look, you're paranoid. I would be too, if I'd had to deal with chronic pain for years. It's completely natural."_

_House shifted his weight onto his other foot, and looked down at the ground briefly. "You don't understand, Wilson. This didn't feel like that. It felt like . . . like it used to. Before the treatment."_

_Despite the fact he could care less about House, he couldn't help but feel somewhat sympathetic. He reached forward and placed his hand on his shoulder. House winced, as if he'd been burned, but didn't pull away. Wilson eyed the scar on his neck, and suddenly recalled that he'd dreamt about House last night. When he remembered more vivid details about that particular dream, he blushed, and shoved it aside._

"_You'll be fine. Just give it time."_

"_I've given it time!" he shouted, jerking his shoulder away. "You think I would ask _you_ if I didn't actually think I needed it?"_

"_That's just it, House. I never said you didn't think you needed it. Of course you think you do--you're an addict, you _always_ th--"_

"_I'm not an addict. I never was. I had chronic pain. There's a difference."_

_Wilson didn't want to get into that particular discussion with House. The first step was admitting he was addicted--apparently, House never had. "Whatever. The point I was making was that you think you need it, but you don't. You've had years of conditioning--a slight twinge of pain meant that in a few moments, you would be in agony. But that's not what it means anymore. Aches and pain and yes, even twinges, are perfectly normal. You're actually in really great shape for your age."_

_House raised an eyebrow at him. "Are you saying I'm fit, Doctor Wilson?" he asked, almost flirtatiously._

_Wilson rolled his eyes, and blamed the sudden fluttering in his stomach on too much caffeine and not enough food. "I'm just saying that you need to re-condition yourself. I've seen it a hundred times before--a former cancer patient, years out of chemo, gets a pain in his chest, and comes rushing to the doctor in fear. You overworked a muscle you haven't used in years. That's all it is, and you're scared of it returning."_

_House didn't quite look like he believed a word of what Wilson had said. "Where do you keep your prescription pad?"_

"_Right, like I'm telling you that."_

_House took another step forward, getting right into Wilson's personal space. He'd done it before--multiple times--but usually to intimidate him. Ever since he'd blackmailed him, Wilson had tried his hardest not to annoy House too much. He wouldn't consider any of their conversations civil, but they certainly didn't argue very much. They bantered a bit, though, but it never went past dry, sarcastic remarks. The past while had been different, though--perhaps it was because House had almost died, but Wilson had felt guilty for all of the horrible things he'd ever said about him. He'd been nicer to him, as hard as it was not to fall back on old habits of trying his hardest to get out of a conversation with him as quickly as possible. But this felt different--he was getting in his space, but he wasn't being intimidating._

"_You're smarter than you look," House said quietly, his voice taking on a tone that somehow managed to make Wilson's throat go dry._

_He thought about how he'd stood up to Vogler for House, who would randomly pull pranks on him for no reason whatsoever. It had irritated him then, but now, looking back on it, it didn't seem so much like trying annoy him as . . . well, flirting. He thought of how House hadn't gone to the ethics board, and although he had blackmailed him, he had at least had the decency to warn him, which he knew House didn't always do._

"_Thanks ever so for the compliment."_

_House tilted his head to the side, and narrowed his eyes a bit. "You care about my well-being." It wasn't a question._

_Before Wilson could say anything, the door opened and House took a large step back, his face completely impassive, although Wilson had no idea why it wouldn't be, since they hadn't been doing anything. His heart begged to differ, though._

"_Oh God, what now?" Cuddy asked as she brushed past them, going straight to her desk. "You couldn't have handled this on your own? What did he do this time?" She looked right at Wilson as she spoke._

"_Nothing," he answered._

_House practically skipped out of her office. "Toodles!" he called before the door shut behind him._

_Wilson waited a moment before talking. "What's in that drawer?" he inquired, pointing at the drawer House had been trying to get into._

"_My prescription pads; why?"_

_Wilson frowned when it clicked. Of course, what else had he been trying to open her drawer for? "It's nothing," he muttered, not quite sure why he wasn't telling her the real reason he had asked. He had a feeling she already knew, anyway._

* * *

When I walked by the diagnostics room, I still noticed that Thirteen wasn't there, and even though I tried not to, I imagined Amber in her place, bickering with Taub, and ignoring Kutner's not-so-subtle flirtations. I imagined her getting into House's face and the both of them throwing insults back and forth, but joking about it afterwards. I thought of her coming home to me to complain about something he did--half-annoyed, but half-amused--as they made last minute diagnoses together.

I wondered if he had come to the conclusion that she was exactly like him, or even if I had noticed the resemblance. I thought of how I would've reacted when House figured out it was Amber who was dying, and both of us unable to figure out why she had been with him. I thought about me, refusing to let them wake her up, knowing that she would die once she did, and wondering how on earth he had seen that rash on her back--why had they met at a bar? Why had they both been on the bus, instead of in her car? Why hadn't I known she was with him?

I had a history of cheating, and so it wouldn't take long for me to picture how the two of them could've gotten together. I had done it before, after all. I would've hated him for not knowing, for not remembering, for apparently having sex with the woman I loved, and I would've been hurt, thinking she had cheated on me with someone I didn't even like.

It didn't make sense--how had we worked at the same hospital for so long, and not learned to like each other? Yes, he was a complete and utter ass, but it was difficult for me to think of a reason why I wouldn't have laughed at one of his jokes, or felt sorry for him when Stacy left and visited him. Had the only reason the two of us dealt with each other in my world been because he bailed me out of jail? Without that root factor, had I not dealt with his stuff long enough to realize he actually entertained me? Or had this universe been built on near misses and him saying the wrong thing at the wrong time, and me having no reason to deal with it?

I realized I had been staring into the diagnostics room when Kutner raised his head and met my eyes through the glass. I shook my head and continued on my way to House's office. I walked in, and he looked away from his magazine to look at me.

"You paged," I reminded, putting my hands in the pockets of my lab coat.

"The whole hospital thinks we're dating."

"That is a side effect of saying we are," I told him, ambling over to the chair in front of his desk and sitting in it. He raised an eyebrow at me. "Believe it or not, I did understand that was a consequence when I told him I was your boyfriend."

"And you don't care."

I shrugged. I was pretty much used to people thinking that anyway. Well, not everybody, but at least half the hospital. All this did was give most of the hospital hard evidence that we were. "Why would I? Let them think what they want."

"You really don't care?"

"Not one bit. Why? Do you?" I seriously doubted that he did.

"Nope. Of course, that might make a little harder to get into Cuddy's pants, but I do like a challenge."

We smiled at each other, and for some reason, the silence got awkward. I thought back to how we'd held hands on the piano bench the night before, and how we'd practically been playing footsie, and that I still had his pyjamas in my dryer and that he still had my dirty clothes at his apartment. I wondered if he had thought about it as much as I had, and wondered if he was thinking about it now, and that was why it suddenly got awkward between us.

"Lunch?" I offered, if only to break the silence.

"I thought you'd never ask. Hold on one second." He stood up, wincing as he squeezed his thigh with his palm, and opened the door separating his office from the diagnostics room. "I'm going on a date with Wilson. If any of you kiddies need me, we'll be down in the cafeteria. If you still can't find us, check the janitor closets."

I smiled thinly, trying to hold back my chuckles, and then joined him on his walk out of his office. He laughed as he opened a bottle of Vicodin, and I frowned when I saw just how many pills he dry-swallowed.

* * *

"How'd you know I didn't like pickles?" House asked after I took them from his hamburger and put them on my own.

"I have satellite images," I replied dryly, and ignored him when he stole a fry from off of my plate.

House rolled his eyes. "Is this another one of those background check things you do? First, you call the ex, then you read my psychological profile? Do you know my blood type too?"

"Of course. It's AB." It was worth it just to see his face fall. "I've read your medical history, House. And don't act like you haven't read mine. As for the pickles, it's a bit noticeable when every time you eat lunch, you take them off. I do have eyes, you know."

He narrowed his eyes, and I doubted he believed me, but I hadn't said anything he would've been able to pick apart, so maybe he was just grudgingly accepting it. "Well, I'll have you know, I've done a little background checking myself."

"Really? And what did you find out?"

"Nothing I didn't already know or suspect." He grabbed a fry of mine and dunked it in ketchup, still looking at me, as if expecting me to smack his hand at any moment. When I didn't, he popped it into his mouth and chewed.

"Such as?" I urged.

"You're blood type O."

* * *

I stifled a yawn as I sat down in my office and picked up my phone. I listened to the dial tone for a moment, then punched in Peter's phone number. I leaned back against the chair and waited for him to pick up.

"Hello?"

"Hey, Peter."

There was a brief silence. "James? Is that you?"

"Yeah."

There was another silence, and it made me shift uncomfortably in my seat. "Are you calling for Danielle?" he asked a moment later, his voice strained, as if he wasn't sure.

I frowned. Danielle? Who was Danielle? Today was Jamie's fifth birthday. Wasn't it? "I'm sorry?" I said slowly, trying to act like I hadn't heard him correctly, so that I didn't sound confused over something that I should've known. It was the twenty-ninth, right?

"Today's Danielle's birthday. Is that why you called?"

Danielle. They had named her Danielle, not Jamie. Back where I was from, they had named her after me. My heart seemed to stop, and my office didn't seem big enough. My eyes started to burn, and I cleared my throat to get rid of the thump that had formed there. "Um, yeah," I muttered, feeling even worse than I had when I'd found out I'd told my assistant that if my parents called, I wasn't in.

"Hold on a second. Danielle!" Peter yelled. I winced at the loudness of his voce. "She'll be here in a second."

"Yeah, Daddy?" I heard her ask. She sounded just like I had remembered her, although I don't know why she'd sound different. Her name had changed--that didn't mean she had.

I heard a noise that sounded like he had covered the receiver with his palm. "It's Uncle James," he informed, his voice muffled, but I could still hear it. Apparently, he had covered it, but not well enough.

"Who?"

"Your uncle." The silence that followed made my eyes water up, and I didn't know if it was because I couldn't hear them through his palm anymore, or if they weren't talking. "The one who cheated on your Aunt Bonnie," he explained further.

"I don't wanna talk to him."

"Danielle, just do it," Peter mumbled.

My heart found its way into my throat and I couldn't swallow it, no matter how much I tried. "Hello?" she said, her voice clear, now that Peter wasn't covering the phone with his hand.

"Hey, Danielle," I said, trying not to sound so hollow and upset (and tripping over the name, since I was used to calling her Jamie.) "Happy birthday."

"Yeah, thanks. Anyway, talk to my dad."

"It was nice hearing from you, James," he said, his voice low, as if he didn't want someone to overhear him. "What brought this on?"

"I just wanted to wish her a happy birthday."

"Do you even know what she looks like?" he demanded, and I heard a door shut on his end. His voice was louder now.

Of course I knew what she looked like. I'd visited them enough times to know what her favourite song was, that she had watched _The Great Mouse Detective_ so much that Peter had hid it in his room so she couldn't subject them to it again, and that she hated _Pinocchio_ because she had nightmares about whales every time she watched it. I knew that she got into fights with her younger brother all the time--usually because he had a habit of grabbing her hair.

"Peter, I--"

"I don't want to hear your excuses. Look, I'm glad you called, but what did you expect? I haven't heard from you in years, and all of sudden, you want to talk to the niece you've never even met? I don't know why you think we hate you so much, but you're doing a damn good job of making us start to. First, the whole thing with Danny, and then all the cheating . . . What are you trying to accomplish? You're a doctor, for God's sake. Why do you have to act like we _owe_ you something?"

"Peter, I'm sorry, I really--"

"If you want us to forgive you, how about you actually show up for once? We all make mistakes. Nobody's perfect, James--not even you. And nobody here will blame you for screwing up. But if you don't start coming 'round, you'll lose even that, you got me?"

Peter and I had always been close. Sure, we'd argued and gotten into a few fights, but normally, we got along just fine. He'd always been the first to lecture me when I was doing something wrong, and so yeah, I had always been wary about letting him know when I was making a mistake, but he'd always found out anyway.

"Peter, I'm sorry. I don't even know why I . . . why I've been avoiding you."

Peter let out a long sigh. "I'm sorry you feel like a failure. And maybe I should've been there for you more. Maybe I should've been your best man." I closed my eyes at the memory. It had hurt, when he had refused. But I had asked House to be my best man instead, and so it hadn't hurt as much as it would've, had I had no one to take his place.

"It's not your fault. You told me your reasons," I told him dully. And I had explained my reason for choosing House to take his place, and he hadn't been angry at all. He had understood entirely.

"It's nice to hear from you. Next time, don't wait so long to call, okay?" The way he said it made it sound like a dismissal.

I nodded, then remembered he couldn't see me. "I'm sorry."

"Look, I've gotta go. Danielle's party, you know." He hung up without saying goodbye, and I felt my stomach plummet to the ground.

I hung up too, and stared at the phone for a long while. I hadn't realized just how much being friends with House had affected, and now that I knew, I couldn't understand why I had ever thought our lives would be better off in the first place.

* * *

_Wilson didn't like Tritter. There was something about him that wasn't right. It wasn't that he hated cops--normally, Wilson respected them. But his cold, too-calm demeanour bothered him in the same way looking at Ted Bundy smile flirtatiously and act all charming during his trial bothered him. He was tall and broad-shouldered--taller than House, even--and strolled through the hospital like he owned it._

_He'd heard about House having to spend the night in jail--Cuddy had bailed him out. She hadn't been pleased, and when Wilson had asked her for permission to use the MRI, he'd noticed she was upset and asked why. Normally, Cuddy wasn't very forthcoming about her problems, but she'd been stressed lately--he didn't know if it was all House or something else in her life._

_He didn't know why House had been in jail, but he was certain he deserved it._

_What bothered him, though, was the fact Detective Tritter had been roaming around the hospital for the past few days, asking House's team questions. He didn't care, really--until he'd been dragged in for questioning as well._

_It was stupid, but he worried that House would spill about Grace, if only to get the attention off him. He worried about the Jack Daniels he had recently taken to hiding in his desk, and wondered if his breath smelled of smoke. One of his patients had died, and he'd been stressed. He'd gone outside to get some fresh air, and one of the male nurses had offered him a smoke. He thought back to when he'd smoked that one time in med school and how it had calmed him, and had taken it, smoking it hesitantly and trying not to cough. It burnt his throat and scratched at his lungs, but a moment later it seemed to slowly fill him with a sort of warmth that took his mind off of the dead child's eyes._

_He knew there was nothing wrong with the cigarette that he'd smoked less than ten minutes ago, and he doubted Tritter had found the bottle of Jack, but still, his heart skipped a beat when his eyes met his and bored through him, almost like he could see everything he'd ever done._

_Tritter chewed his nicotine gum leisurely, as if mocking him with it. "Your office is right beside House's," he stated, as if Wilson were unaware of it._

"_Yes," he answered (although it hadn't been a question) and nodded once._

"_You've been working with him for about thirteen years, am I correct?"_

"_Nigh on," he agreed._

_Tritter nodded, and although he hadn't done anything wrong, he somehow managed to feel like he'd given something away. "Gregory House is an addict. His dependence on narcotics can endanger his patients; I think that's something anyone _reasonable_ would be able to see."_

_Wilson sighed. "He's an addict, but he's a good doctor."_

_Tritter narrowed his eyes. Apparently, that wasn't what he wanted to hear. He'd probably heard that Wilson and House didn't like each other, so it probably surprised him. "Has he ever asked you to write him a prescription?"_

_Wilson nodded. "A few times."_

"_And did you write them?"_

_Wilson shook his head. "No," he answered truthfully. He remembered after the ketamine treatment that House had asked several times, but he'd never given in. He'd even taken to hiding his prescription pad and locking it in fear he would try to steal them, like he'd caught him trying to do with Cuddy's._

_Tritter's cold eyes stared through him, and Wilson felt sick. He'd dealt with House on a daily basis, who could be intimidating when he wanted to, but he didn't give him vibes like this._

"_Why wouldn't you write them for him?" he inquired after a long silence._

"_Because I hate him," he told him baldly. It sounded so harsh and unfair, to hear it said like that, and he almost felt guilty._

_Tritter's smile did nothing to ease his nerves. Instead he placed a card on the table between them and slowly slid the card across the top. "I'd like you to call this number if House does . . . anything you find I should be aware of," he ordered smoothly._

_Wilson took the card, and watched as Tritter stood from the table and walked away._

_Wilson didn't know why, but he threw the card away as soon as possible. Holding onto it felt dirty; as if he'd made a deal with the devil._

_Tritter showed up at the hospital a few more times--he'd even heard that he'd searched House's apartment--but if anything ever came of the detective's investigation, he didn't know about it, and House remained unscathed._


	10. Chapter 10

Chapter Ten

For the life of me, I couldn't figure out why I would've avoided my family. It wasn't that I was still dependant on my parents or anything, but I'd never avoided them. Ever since Danny, I couldn't deny them a conversation. Even if I was busy or not in the mood, I couldn't hang up. I'd felt so guilty after Danny that I might even say I overcompensated when it came to what my family needed. To go from that to never calling, all because I wasn't friends with House? How did that make sense?

There was a time, after Danny first disappeared, that I felt guilty and tried not to talk to them often, but eventually I got over it. How had not knowing House changed that? It didn't make sense--how had some stranger bailing me out of jail changed so much and made my life back in my reality . . .

I must've called my parents to bail me out. Had that somehow . . . ?

I suppose I wouldn't have any way of knowing, but still, I couldn't help but wonder. How could things be so similar, and yet so different? How could we be working at the same hospital and not be friends? House had been the one to tell me about the position, and I'd taken it because I'd last seen Danny nearby . . . Had I somehow found the job on my own?

I opened my laptop and checked my history--nothing too different; I still had cancer research sites on my favourites list, but I didn't have anything to do with diagnostic medicine. I suppose that made sense, since I wouldn't have ever sent anything House's way he would've enjoyed reading. I hadn't been to youtube for the past two weeks, either. Then again, I didn't really visit that site unless House sent me a link.

I checked my email--a few notices that Cuddy sent out to everybody, a few emails regarding new cancer developments, but nothing else. No annoying chain emails; no inappropriate jokes; not long rambles House typed in a fit of boredom, either.

I checked my sent folder--nothing. Either I deleted my sent folder more than I did in my reality, or I didn't have anybody to send anything to. Since I didn't keep in contact with my family, and I wasn't friends with House, that made sense.

I found a _Twilight_ parody on youtube and sent it to House.

It didn't take long for him for him to reply. A simple 'lol' was in the subject line, and when I opened it, it was a link to a World of Warcraft parody that he'd sent me before, but was still funny when I watched it. I sent him another link, and a few minutes later he sent another.

I spent the next two hours searching youtube for funny videos and sending them to him just as quickly as he sent them to me. His comments in his emails started getting longer, and I could hear him laughing through my walls, although the diagnostics room was in between us.

I remembered, in my reality, that I had a document where I kept the funniest links. I opened up my documents folder to find that I had saved some articles (the same ones I'd saved in my reality) but not the document where I kept the funny jokes and video links.

There was a document on this laptop that I didn't recognize, though. It wasn't named. Which was what caught my attention in the first place. I ignored the pop-up saying that House had sent me another email and clicked on the document, confused.

I read through it, realizing it was dated for New Year's Day, although it hadn't happened yet. Why would I post-date an unnamed document?

At first, I was confused, although I recognized that what was written was definitely typed by me. But a few sentences in, I realized what it was. What I had written. I knew why it was dated for a few days from now, and with words like 'nobody's fault but my own' and 'I just couldn't laugh anymore' I couldn't deny what I was seeing. I read about how I had stopped taking my prescription pills--that I had changed my will. That I couldn't handle dealing with death on a daily basis, and that I hadn't been happy since Amber died, and even before then, I hadn't been happy for a long while.

It was even signed by me.

It was like someone dumped a bucket of ice water over my head, or swallowing glass of milk just to find that it had been sour. I thought about how I'd cancelled my monthly appointment with my psychiatrist, and how none of my paperwork had been done . . . I thought of the cuts on my inner thighs, and although I knew that cutting oneself was an entirely different problem than suicide, it only showed how deep my depression was.

I was going to kill myself.

I was _suicidal._

I had absolutely nothing in my life worth living for. Two divorces, a girlfriend I had assumed cheated on me with the one person I hated, and nothing else. No friends . . . I couldn't laugh anymore. That was what I'd said.

When I'd first thought about going to a psychiatrist, I'd felt like I was giving up. It felt like I had failed. That was why I'd hidden it from House--not only because I hadn't wanted him to shove it in my face that I was just as screwed up and unhappy as he was, but because it felt like I should've been able to deal with the pain on my own. That I shouldn't have had to rely on medication. But I couldn't deny that it worked.

Apparently, here, even that hadn't been enough.

I wanted to puke. Bile rose and burned the back of my throat. I'd never been claustrophobic, but my office felt too small. I didn't want to read over it again--I wanted to pretend I'd never even found it. But how could I? How could I forget that I was suicidal?

I put my head in my hands and closed my eyes, trying to wash my mind free of those thoughts. I tried to think about anything else, but I couldn't. Everything that flitted across my mind made me nauseous. I thought of how I would do it--would I just down the rest of my depression medication and finish a bottle of vodka to myself? Would I take a bath and slice my wrists? Would I throw myself off the hospital or put a gun to my temple?

I was going to kill myself on New Years, and I had no idea how.

I heard a noise from my computer and I looked up, noticing it was a pop-up telling me House had sent another email. I reached for the touchpad on my laptop, my hand shaking. I opened the email and clicked on the link. It was funny, I guess, but I didn't laugh. I sent him an email with two links inside, and then deleted the document.

After that, I emptied the recycling bin.

* * *

"You're in a weird mood," House commented as he strode up beside me.

I smiled briefly at him, my heart not really into it. Various images of my dead body filled my mind and I shrugged. "I called my niece today. It's her birthday." I furrowed my brows, remembering that her name was Danielle, and not Jamie. "She didn't know who I was," I added.

"Guess that's what happens when you avoid your family for more than a decade," he pointed out reasonably as he prodded the elevator button.

I nodded, then furrowed my eyebrows. "Wait, how did you--"

"I did a background check, remember? What, you think you're the only one who can dig out all the skeletons in the closet? Called up your family and your ex-wives. Read your medical file. You know, the usual."

"Broke into my office, searched through all my drawers, taped together all my shredded files . . ." I added half-heartedly, looking at the doors as they opened, and imagining brain matter painting my apartment walls.

"You know me well," he revealed as he limped inside.

I followed him. "Did you find anything of interest?"

"Oh, a little of this, a little of that." He pressed the button of the floor we needed.

"So, in other words, nothing. You'd be mocking me if you did."

"Hang out with me tonight," he demanded.

Him demanding instead of asking was so much like my House that I couldn't help but smile. "All right."

His smile was so brief I could've imagined it. I don't think I did, though. "So, I know a little something about avoiding family. Why do you do it? You have a funny uncle? Or just general dislike?"

"I really don't know," I answered honestly, and when the doors dinged open, I thought of blood trickling across my wrist and staining my bathwater red.

House shrugged as we walked out of the elevator, his body swaying with his limp and bumping against mine. It actually seemed more persistent than usual--as if he were testing me. Knowing him, he probably was. I pushed back and he pushed even harder.

"My dad was an ass," he told me.

"I'm sorry."

"Not your fault," he brushed off, waving his hand dismissively. "Not your fault my mom hates me now, either. You gonna apologize for that, too?"

I opened my mouth to do just that, but closed it without speaking.

"Doctors House and Wilson, checking out at 5:30," he called to the nurse.

"House, I'm sure your mother doesn't--"

"I skipped my dad's funeral. She didn't give me a Christmas present. I think it's safe to say she hates me."

Of course he hadn't gone to the funeral. His mother would've never called me, Cuddy never would've drugged him, and I never would've dragged him to the funeral. I had never been pulled over, we'd never ruminated over how we met, and I wouldn't have thrown that bottle through the window. House would've been at the hospital, diagnosing his patient, and she had either died when he did the MRI, or lived when he realized (without my help) that she'd had a pin pushed through her skull as an infant.

It was snowing lightly outside, and I pulled my coat tighter around me to block off the cold. "You staying the night?" House asked casually, but if he was anything like my House, he was telling me he wanted me there.

"I'll need to stop by my apartment to grab some clothes," I told him, and met his eyes.

He nodded once. "I'll leave the door unlocked." He shuffled on the spot, almost awkwardly, then pushed off of the sidewalk.

I watched him leave for a moment, then moved off in the direction of my car.

* * *

Thai takeout boxes littered the coffee table (which he had cleaned off before I arrived) and _The New Yankee Workshop_ played on the television, the sound muted. House was playing on the newly-tuned piano (had he hired someone to do it for him while he was at work?) and I just listened. He made a few mistakes that he wouldn't have made where I was from, but I pretended like I didn't hear them. After all, I only knew because I was used to hearing him play flawlessly--had I never heard him play before, I wouldn't have known.

I looked over at him and watched as he pressed down on the pedal every so often and how his arms flexed and his fingers danced. He stared at the keys--he wasn't reading any sheet music--as he played. He turned his head and looked at me. I almost blinked and looked away so that he wouldn't know I was staring, but I didn't. One side of his mouth quirked upward, then he looked back at the piano.

He finished up the song, then closed it before joining me on the couch. He was already in his pyjamas, socks and shoes somewhere on the floor beneath us and looking as relaxed and at home as I was used to him appearing. I was still wearing my work clothes, but my tie was gone and the top button of my shirt was undone. It almost felt like I was back home; the only reminder that I wasn't in my reality was his thinner-than-usual appearance and his more pronounced limp.

He turned the volume up a bit, so I could barely hear the saws and the faint mumbling of talking, but that was it. I knew House wasn't all that interested in the show itself, so much as the false hope that one day, there would be a horrible accident, despite the fact I'd reminded him on several occasions that it was pre-recorded and even if he decapitated himself, they wouldn't air it.

"Got any plans for New Year's Eve?"

"Not as such," I answered, an image of me splattered on the sidewalk in front of the hospital flashing across my mind. Would I wait until midnight? Would people be celebrating all around me while I killed myself, totally unaware of what I was planning?

"Huh. Neither do I. Imagine that." I smiled at him, and although he didn't return the sentiment, I could see the sparkle in his eyes. "You should stop by."

"All right," I agreed with a shrug. It was the only thing I'd want to do, anyway.

His knee was pressed against mine slightly, and I tried not to notice, but I couldn't help it. "Any plans for New Year's Day?"

I imagined hanging by my neck in my closet, eyes open and lifeless. "Not really," I muttered. Hell no. I don't care what I thought in this reality, I was not going to off myself. Life was not so horrible I couldn't fathom the idea of living.

"You didn't ask for it off. New Year's Day, I mean."

I sighed and leaned my head against the back of the couch. I guess I wouldn't have bothered, seeing as I was planning on dying that day, anyway. Had I planned someone coming to check on me and finding the note?

"Did you?" I asked.

"Nah. Cuddy wouldn't have given it to me if I did. Best day of my life--diagnosing hangovers when I've got my own to beat into submission. Guess you'd know all about that, wouldn't you?"

I really couldn't deny it, seeing as I had no clue, and so I just shrugged.

House plopped his arm on the back of the couch behind me. "Well, you've given up smoking and you only had two shots of whiskey--and unless you're the biggest lightweight in existence, I doubt that did much for you--and you've been all snuggly with me. You do know that you're supposed to save the resolutions for _January_ right?"

"I'm an overachiever."

"You wanna get plastered on New Year's Eve with me? We could wear sunglasses and bitch at people together on the first. Could be fun." He waggled his eyebrows.

I rolled my eyes. "Yes, that is exactly what I consider a great time--a pulsing headache while at work. I make a point of doing it every year."

"And every Saturday morning you work, day after Christmas, middle of the week . . ." he trailed off, raising his eyebrows at me.

"Resolution, remember? I'm trying to become a better man."

"Then you've decided to be friends with the wrong person. It is my resolution to corrupt you."

"Oh, well, in that case, I'll bring the beer," I told him. I could drink on New Year's Eve, if I wanted. It was a holiday and I doubted I was that much of an alcoholic.

House nodded. "It's a date."

I smiled inwardly to myself, and his arm dropped onto my shoulders. I froze and his hand tensed. I halfway expected him to move it and play it off as a joke (which I also half-expected to be true) and then when I relaxed, so did he. I thought of how we'd played the piano together and how he'd held my hand, and found myself wondering if perhaps there was something between us that I'd always ignored in favour of assuming he just didn't reciprocate.

His thumb brushed my upper arm and I sunk into the cushions some more, leaning my head against his shoulder. He didn't shove me away or make a joke. He actually didn't do much of anything, except continue to brush my shirt with his thumb.

He used his free hand to change the channels, and left it on some comedy. I focused on it enough to know the plot and chuckle at a few of the jokes, but I didn't really know what was going on. I couldn't really think about much of anything other than the fact House had his arm around me, and that I had been planning to kill myself.

I didn't realize how tired I was until I closed my eyes, but I told myself I wasn't going to fall asleep--I wanted to hold onto this moment for as long as possible, curling up beside my best friend while he breathily chuckled every few minutes and kept his arm around me.

* * *

_Wilson stood on the balcony that he and House shared, feeling the cement against his elbows and forearms where he leaned. The cool air felt great on his overheated skin, and darkness was a blanket surrounding the hospital. It was peaceful; calm. Everything about the night suggested it was a relaxing end to a good day. Just like Wilson--a picture of relaxation and charm; he could take the world's problems on his shoulders and by the end of the day, he brushed them off with a casual smile and a friendly pat on the shoulder to people who could really care less about him._

_Appearances could be deceiving._

_Timothy had been in his early twenties; a few years ago, he'd been the star athlete of the university's track team, and he'd gotten in on scholarship due to his exemplary grades. He'd wanted to be a lawyer, and from the looks of it, it seemed that he would've been able to. _

_He'd been a little sick, but it was during the winter. He hadn't noticed it as being anything different than a nasty cold. The headaches he paid no mind to--stress from school, and occasional drinking binges with his buddies explained most of it. Blurred vision, vertigo, unexplained bloody noses--something Wilson supposed most people wouldn't have paid them any mind, either. By the time Timothy thought there could be something wrong with him--the cold persisted for a few months, the headaches only got worse, his grades were suffering from all of it--it had been too late. By then, all Wilson could do was offer to make him comfortable and watch the guilty expression on his face, knowing what he was thinking--that if he had just paid attention a little sooner he wouldn't have a death sentence. Maybe it was true, and maybe it wasn't, but either way, he'd had less than six months to live._

_He'd died not a few hours ago, and Wilson hated himself for caring. He'd gotten attached to him, despite knowing that he was dying. In fact, most of the people Wilson got attached to were dying--relationships were a foreign concept to him, apparently, because all the people he seemed to have any sort of connection with were dying in a few months. He didn't have friends at all--merely acquaintances or colleagues who sat around and congratulated themselves on their successes as a doctor, while he agreed dully and politely, sipping his champagne at all the oncology benefits--which seemed to be the only time he had conversations with these people. _

_Bonnie and him were married only through technicality--they hardly saw one another, and the sex he was getting wasn't from her. He didn't know if she knew he was cheating on her, and honestly, he didn't care. It didn't seem that she did, either. She didn't ask why he was late getting home anymore, but he always told her it was because of work--usually that was true, but sometimes it wasn't. Sometimes he stayed late at the hospital because he'd rather be surrounded with people he was helping and seemed to truly like him, rather than go home to a wife he probably didn't love and only stayed with because he was on the wrong side of middle-aged with one divorce already under his belt and leaving her would mark him as a failure. Again. _

_How could a well-liked oncologist with his salary be a failure? He didn't know, but it certainly seemed he'd found a way._

_And instead of being able to cope with death, as an oncologist should've been able to do, he found himself avoiding his house and standing on the balcony, briefly entertaining the idea of just hoisting himself over and spending the last two seconds of his life knowing what it was like to fly._

_He stopped leaning against the ledge and reached into his pocket, pulling out a pack of cigarettes. Each time felt like giving up, but nothing else seemed to calm him after a patient died, not even the bottle of Jack he kept in his drawer, or the fact his staff never acknowledged the fact his breath sometimes smelled of alcohol and nicotine although he knew it must've._

_He sucked in the nicotine and felt the smoke fill his lungs, and his jittery nerves relaxed exponentially. Timothy was still dead, and his eyes still burned at the memory, but he could focus better, at least. Tonight when he went home to his wife, she wouldn't even be able to tell he'd had a bad day, and he could tell himself that eating her dinner made him a good husband. That all the nameless faces he went home with on the weekends didn't matter, and that when they finally managed to have sex in their cold bed they only shared because they were both too afraid to sleep on the couch and accept the fact it was all over, it was all he needed and that maybe he could stop the cheating and only have sex with her for the rest of his life._

_House's door opened and Wilson nearly choked on the smoke that he still held in his lungs. For a moment he panicked, but then he realized it was too late to hide what he was doing. House walked to the edge of the balcony, a little half-wall separating them, and Wilson blew the smoke into the night in shame._

"_Hand me a cig," he ordered, sticking out his palm expectantly._

_Wilson could've told him to go to hell, realizing that was probably the one sentence he said the most to the diagnostician, but figured it was pointless. Sighing, he pulled out another cigarette and handed it to him._

_House plopped it into his mouth and leaned forward a bit. It took Wilson a moment to realize what House wanted, and rolled his eyes. He lit it for House, who puffed expertly and blew the smoke away from his face. He turned to see the empty night._

"_An oncologist who smokes," he stated with what sounded like pleasure._

"_Should I allow you a moment to appreciate the irony?"_

"_Far more interesting than rain on your wedding day." He sucked in the smoke, then blew out little rings. Fascinated by the way his lips moved and his cheeks hollowed briefly, Wilson couldn't look away, and realized that House had obviously had more smoking experience than he did, despite the fact he'd never actually seen him near a pack of smokes. "Kinda like how I seem to know more about you than anyone else does," he added a second later, his blue eyes sliding away from the night and onto Wilson._

_Wilson looked away. He tried to avoid the electric gaze of House, and told himself that it had nothing to do with the fact most of the women he slept with had blue eyes. He hated House; he was annoying, stubborn, a complete ass, and had no respect or concern for anyone other than himself. Of course he hated him. "I wouldn't necessarily consider that an achievement, House."_

"_Because nobody knows you," House stated. _

_Wilson didn't bother correcting him; it was true. Instead, he took a long drag off of his cigarette, and continued to look at the darkness that was Princeton. He wondered if one of the many lights shining in the distance was his own, or if Bonnie had already turned off the porch light and given up on waiting for him._

"_So, you smoke, huh? All the ladies you screw like the taste of it on your tongue, or do they just forgo kissing entirely?"_

_Wilson bristled. "Unlike you, House, I don't sleep with hookers."_

"_And unlike you, I'm not married," House retaliated. Wilson pursed his lips together and continued smoking. He couldn't say anything to that, either._

"_Why are you out here?" Wilson asked a moment later, when the silence began to drag on longer than a few seconds._

"_Foreman's finally gone, and I fired Chase. I'm celebrating. And you?"_

"_I'm smoking," Wilson evaded._

"_I can see that. You don't always smell like smoke, so you can't do it a lot, and you're not out in the smoking pit which means you don't want anyone to know."_

"_Has anyone ever told you how _annoying_ you are?" He glanced at House long enough to see the smirk, then shook his head, wondering why he even bothered. "A patient of mine died today."_

"_If you smoked every time one of your patients died, you'd be one of them."_

_Wilson shook his head and stared at the ground. "I normally only do it when it's the kids, but . . ." He couldn't explain it, simply because even he didn't understand._

"_You got attached. You crave human contact. It's a side effect of not having any. You make friends with the dying because your wife could care less about you, and nobody here gives a rat's ass. If they lived longer than a few months you'd just screw it up, and they'd leave you anyway."_

"_And you, being a master at human connection . . ."_

"_I never said that. I sleep with hookers. You sleep with sluts. We're not so different, you know."_

"_There is a world of difference between us, House," Wilson snapped, hating being reminded of his faults by someone who only ever seemed to do so. The only person who knew him at all, and he couldn't stand the sight of him. "You're a self-destructive egomaniacal addict who ruins everything he touches. You trap yourself in this little anti-social bubble and you feed off misery and just _drag_ everybody down with you because you're selfish and alone."_

_An expression Wilson didn't recognize flashed across House's face, but it was so quick he couldn't decipher it. House took a long drag off of his cigarette and blew the smoke into his face. Wilson coughed and waved it away. House tossed his cigarette, red streaking through the black night, and then stuck his hand over the half-wall, as if wanting to shake his hand. "Hi, I'm Kettle," he greeted enthusiastically._

_Wilson blinked and opened his mouth to tell him where he could go, but House turned on his heel and limped back into his office._

_It didn't occur to him until he was at the bar, lighting some blue-eyed man's cigarette, that House had been trying to socialize._

* * *

A/N--I've seriously just had one of the worst days of my life. It's definitely on the top five worst days list of my life so far. And so I did not check over this before posting and so all mistakes are mine.


	11. Chapter 11

Chapter Eleven

Cooking for House was familiar and normal, so when I accidentally woke him up (apparently, I brush my teeth too noisily) and he demanded retribution through breakfast, it wasn't at all odd. He had far less food in the apartment than I was used to (honestly, how many cans of Spaghetti-O's does someone need?) and so I ended up going to the store and using my credit card to buy something edible.

I made macadamia nut pancakes, ignoring his less-than-pleasing commentary. He railed on about how cooking was unnecessary, and that all he needed to live happily was Spaghetti-O's, peanut butter and jelly, and macaroni and cheese, but I continued. I knew for a fact he liked them, even if he had never admitted it in my reality. I lectured him on proper nutrition, and we fell into a banter session that was familiar to me, but new to him.

I almost forgot that I wasn't home.

Being with House, cooking for him, spending the night . . . It was almost domestic. I often found myself comparing our relationship to my marriages--that if we lived with one another, that if we were together, that this is what it would be like. There were a few reasons why I had moved out of his apartment, but one of the main reasons was that being so close to him, living with him, having a slightly domestic lifestyle with him, had made it difficult for me to keep what I felt at bay.

"What's this?" House asked, mouth curling in distaste, as he poked the pancakes I'd made with his fork.

"Macadamia nut pancakes."

"Are you trying to poison me? All this British nut crap shoved into a pancake is bound to kill me."

"British? House, sometimes, I'm amazed that you don't confuse yourself."

He stabbed at it again. "Macadamia trees are native to Australia."

"Contrary to popular belief, Australia and England are two entirely separate cultures. In fact, they aren't even on the same continent."

"They both have pretentious accents and funny money. And, apparently, food not meant to see the digestive system. Next thing you know, you'll be force feeding me haggis and spotted dick."

"With all the hookers you sleep with, I'm surprised you're not already familiar with the latter. Now shut up and eat your food."

"Yes, Mommy," he relented petulantly, and lifted a forkful of syrup-covered macadamia nut pancakes to his nose, sniffing it. He licked it tentatively, then stuffed it in his mouth and chewed. I smirked when his eyes widened slightly and he stared at his plate as if he'd never seen it before.

I raised my eyebrows at him when he stuffed another forkful in his mouth and moaned. He noticed my expression, and glared. "Oh, shut up," he grumbled through a mouthful of food, and kicked my shin with his bare foot.

* * *

Doing rounds was the same as it was in my reality--I had the same patients, and they all seemed to be doing as well as they always had. One of my patients commented on my change of mood after receiving her radiation treatment, though. When I asked her what she meant, she just said that she'd never seen my smile look so genuine before, and that I just seemed happier in general. One of the oncology nurses even pulled me aside to tell me that even if she didn't understand what I saw in House, that being in love suited me. That I hadn't even been this happy with Bonnie or Amber. I guess it made sense they would comment, seeing as I had been suicidal.

I leaned back in my desk and signed onto my email account, unable to stop myself from smiling when I saw House had sent me eight emails. Five of them had youtube links, and the other three were long, inappropriate jokes.

There were a few knocks on my door, and then Cuddy walked in, smoothing her shirt with her hands and shifting her weight awkwardly.

"Everything all right?" I asked, minimizing a particularly filthy anecdote involving pornographic pictures.

"House came into work on time today," she stated warily, as if it caused her great unrest. Which, of course, I understood entirely. Any time House did something that wasn't normal, it didn't usually mean well for anybody.

"Only through default. I offered him a ride to work--I had already made him breakfast, so he was awake anyway," I explained, pulling a black pen from the holder on my desk and opening a folder containing some paperwork.

"You made him breakfast." In my reality, it wouldn't have gotten a reaction. In this one, it was unnerving to hear. I was aware of that when I told her, but I couldn't care what she thought about it. "Are you two . . . _living_ together?"

"No. I just spent the night, is all."

"You spent the night. With House."

"At House's apartment," I corrected, seeing as the way she said it made it seem as if we'd slept together.

She narrowed her eyes suspiciously, and it was so House-like it bothered me. "You know he's not a substitute for Amber, right?"

"What?"

"Come on, Wilson. You'd have to be blind not to notice the similarities."

Well, wasn't that an odd twist. Instead of me dating Amber because she was like House, now I was dating House because he was like Amber. "You do know that I was lying when I told the doctor we were dating, right?"

"You may have been lying about that, but you stayed with him all night. You barely even left his side--I asked. You may not be dating, but you're acting awfully interested." I shifted in my seat a bit--this topic was getting uncomfortable. "You're alone, and I get how rough that can be--you're not used to that. But he's not Amber."

"Did it ever occur to you that maybe I dated Amber because she was like House, and not the other way around?" I pointed out dryly.

She rolled her eyes. "Please. You two couldn't stand each other. Now, you two are eating lunch together, and spending the night with each other . . . It's moving quickly, and I get how exciting a relationship with House can _seem_ but . . . It's been a little more than a year since you and Amber started dating, and only few months since she . . . I just don't want you taking on too much that you can't handle."

"I . . . appreciate what you're saying, but . . ."

"It's not my business to pry," she finished for me. "I know that, but be careful."

I nodded once, appreciating the sentiment, but irked by it nonetheless.

* * *

Other than a fourteen-year-old with pneumonia, clinic went by as it usually did--without a hitch, and more than enough colds. One man had haemorrhoids and another had Chlamydia, and when I was working through the exam rooms, handing out antibiotics and diagnosing the usual, I completely forgot where I was. Everything was normal, all the patients smiled at me, and nobody stared at me strangely.

It wasn't until I scheduled someone for surgery--to remove a benign tumour--and I didn't see Robert Chase's name anywhere that I remembered. It wasn't that I was going to thrust my patient into his care, but his name had always popped out before. Perhaps it was because he used to work for House, but I always noticed his name first. We had never become friends, but when I went down to the OR, we'd see each other and we'd have a brief conversation--nothing overly friendly, but more personal than the small talk I made with other colleagues. I wandered the OR for a bit, looking specifically for him, but I never did see his face.

It wasn't that I expected him to be there, but I needed to make sure.

There were a hundred reasons why Chase would've quit, or House would've fired him, and why he wouldn't come back. Chase had never been the most loyal fellow, and I suppose without Cameron around he would have no reason to come back.

Feeling disoriented, I returned to my office and shut the door behind me. I don't know why, but the fact that even Chase was gone bugged me. I had never really had any feelings towards him whatsoever, but how had my friendship with House caused even that? Why hadn't I ever just walked into House's office, laughed at one of his jokes, and sought him out after that because I thought it was worth it? Why hadn't I ever struck up a conversation with the man whose office was right beside mine? It wasn't like we had been the best of friends when I first started working here, although we'd already been friendly enough for him to offer me a job. Had the fact he'd been so bored one weekend that he'd thought of paying off some stranger's bail really been the only reason we'd become and stayed friends? Sure, when I first started working here, House had sought me out more often than the other way around--he'd clung. It made sense now, I suppose--not very many people looked at House as anything other than an ass, and I had still felt obligated to pay him back for bailing me out (preventing me from having to tell my parents.)

We'd been friends for a few months before he met Stacy paint-balling--he loved paint-balling, one of the many things he'd probably never be able to do again--and until then, I'd been the only person who'd shown kindness to him, or even acted like I wanted to be his friend. It hadn't taken long for us to bond and get as close as we were, but it hadn't been me who kept the friendship going--he always came to me, sat with me, and started conversations with me, until we became more than just acquaintances.

I had never been particularly stubborn--or at least, I'd never really considered myself that way--although, thinking on it, I could be. I guess one would have to be, in order to stay friends with House. Had I just not liked him and refused to do so? Or had I never found his antics amusing, seeing as I'd never felt obligated to be kind to him?

Had he hated me as much as I seemed to hate him? Had I stayed away because everybody told me I was in the right to do so? I knew my life was far worse without him, but what about him? Was he all right? Or was he just as he had been with me? Sure, his leg seemed to bother him more, and he definitely took more Vicodin, but . . . Was he really all that worse off?

Sighing, I put on my coat and made my way to the balcony door. It was cold outside, my air hanging in misty clouds in front of my mouth, but staring at Princeton, covered in snow, made me feel a little better. At least our relationship hadn't contributed to global warming.

I glanced over my shoulder into House's office to see that he was in his chair, bouncing his large ball against the wall and catching it. His head turned and his eyes caught mine. I smiled at him and nodded in greeting, and the grin that broke across his features surprised me. He only grinned like that around me, but usually he tried to stop it from happening, so it was never that easy to put it on his face. A small smirk, or tiny upward curve of his lips, sure, but a full-on grin? I was more used to seeing the crinkling around his mouth _preventing_ it.

He got out of his chair and made his way onto the balcony, throwing on his own coat, and joined me. Our balcony was free of snow, probably due to the janitors, but the grounds surrounding the hospital were fluffy and white, or splashed with grey and melted into slush in the parking lot due to the cars. We both leaned against the ledge, our arms brushing up against one another on the dividing wall between us.

I looked over to see if he was still smiling, but instead he looked almost . . . bothered. The grin was replaced by a frown, and his brows were furrowed. I nudged him with my shoulder and he turned to look at me. "You are just emanating excitement and joy. Please, do share whatever good news you've heard," I greeted.

"You know, sarcasm is not always a becoming trait on you," he responded darkly, although the corner of his mouth twitched.

"Good thing I have my looks to make up for that, then. Do you want to talk about what's bothering you?"

"Do you even _have_ a Y-chromosome?"

"I did the last I checked, but you know how these things change all the time."

He stared back at the white snow surrounding us, and his shoulder was pressed against mine more firmly. The snowy scene was a distraction; he didn't want to look at me when he spoke. He never did when he talked about something that bothered him. "Cuddy thinks we're dating," he said, and his tone was as cold as the white around us.

"As does the entire hospital. I told her I lied--"

"You stayed," he interrupted, his head bowed slightly.

"I stayed," I agreed, knowing he needed me to confirm it. I don't know why he did or how I knew; I just did.

He nodded slightly, and he nudged the back of my hand with his pinky. Our arms still rested along the dividing wall, fabric pressed together, but my skin was aware of the contact. "I will hurt you. I will push you until you leave. That's what she said. She's not lying."

"Believe it or not, I knew that before I bought you lunch."

"Then why? Because I remind you of Amber?" His eyes locked onto mine, his face a stone. His words went straight to my chest and squeezed my lungs and heart. He worried about it. At the moment, I really hated Cuddy for obviously talking to him about it.

"I dated Amber because she reminded me of you, remember?" I countered with a smile, and knocked his hand with my knuckles gently.

"Just checking," he responded.

His hands were cold when they slipped into mine, and I couldn't look at him. I understood why he stared at the scenery before us; looking at him made it real. We were flirting, and we knew it, but as long as we didn't see each other, then we could pretend it didn't happen.

I thought of how he wrapped his arm around me last night, and how we held hands and locked feet at the piano, and I wondered why now? Why here? What about my House? Was this Wilson in my body? Or did that reality stop existing? So, why did we do this here, and not where we'd been friends for years?

"Why did we hate each other?" I asked, trying to make it sound rhetorical, but I failed. I squeezed his hand--I didn't want him to let go.

"I'm a self-destructive egomaniacal addict and I ruin everything I touch. I pull everyone into my anti-social bubble and ruin them and make them as miserable as I am. Or don't you remember?" he spat acidly, but the fact he was clinging onto my hand sort of ruined the effect.

I gathered I must've said that to him before. What could I say to that?

"I never hated you. You were just too stupid to see it," he answered a moment later.

"I'm sorry."

"Seriously, why do you always apologize for everything?"

"Er . . . I don't know. I guess I just . . . want to apologize for . . . assuming you hated me," I muttered.

"Nobody hates you," he informed, and it sounded almost petulant. Envious, maybe. "Well, except maybe your first wife. No . . . no, scratch that, she _definitely_ hates you."

"Well, the person I cheated on her with was her friend, too," I revealed sheepishly. I never really talked about my first wife with House, simply because he hadn't known her, and hadn't cared to ask. It wasn't something I liked talking about in general--after all, it wasn't my proudest moment.

His mouth quirked and his eyes flashed, but the expression was so brief I only registered a slight sense of danger before he shrugged it off. "Yeah, she said something about that," he said, and his thumb brushed over my knuckles. "You know, if you'd kept your big mouth shut, she probably wouldn't have ever found out."

"We were having problems before that."

"A lot of fights, then? Arguments, broken dishes, hot make-up sex up against the counters and stuff like that?"

I shook my head, realizing that my hand was no longer cold, and neither was his. "Neither of us liked confrontations. I was constantly walking on eggshells around her. Mostly we just didn't talk if we were angry. Maybe that was our problem--we didn't talk about anything. I just bottled it all up, and I was stressed out because of med school and so was she--she wanted to be a--"

"A neurologist, yeah, yeah. Too bad she married a dentist and popped out a kid or two. I coulda hired her instead of Foreman. Oh well--hindsight's twenty-twenty. So neither of you liked fighting, and instead of talking out your problems, whoops--you empty them into a bottle and follow it up with a hot cup of coffee. Oh, and in case you didn't get it, that was a euphemism for sex."

"That explains all the naked women I got instead of lattes," I said dryly, and he made a sound that could've been a chuckle. "She couldn't even hand me the divorce papers to my face. I was at a medical conference in New Orleans when I got them through the mail, and a letter explaining she had packed everything of mine in some boxes and sent them to a storage unit."

"Harsh," he commented.

I shrugged. "Not as harsh as it could've been." After all, it was because of that I'd met him. Well, at least, in my universe, anyway. Perhaps here it had been far worse. Without him to bail me out, and nobody to cling to after my divorce (although I distinctly remember him being the one who clung), I had probably been a wreck. Thinking about the conference made me smile, even if my memories were different than they should've been. "I remember, I carried them around with me the entire time. If anybody started talking to me, I turned it so they couldn't read, and I acted indifferent--happy, even. I guess I thought if I never opened them, then maybe . . . I don't know." It would sound idiotic if I said it out loud, so I clamped my mouth shut.

"I am aware of basic physics, Wilson. But no--the cat is still dead, even if the lid is shut. After awhile, it'll start to either meow, or stink. Just because you don't know the answer doesn't mean there isn't one. There is _always_ an answer. There is _always_ a right and a wrong. You didn't want to see it, but you knew what it was. Not reading it wouldn't change that."

I nodded, knowing that he was right. Even during the conference, I'd told myself that several times, and still, it had remained unopened until after House had paid my bail.

"It was a horrible weekend. Everything that could've gone wrong _did_ go wrong. I had hardly any money, was in a town I didn't know, had absolutely no friends and no home, and my wife had just filed for divorce. All I wanted was a few drinks in peace, but this _ass_ kept playing 'Leave A Tender Moment Alone' on the jukebox, and I asked him _politely--"_

House laughed.

I'm not talking a brief chuckle, or a scoff--he burst into full-bodied hysterical laughter. He let go of my hand so he could press his forehead against the ledge and pound his fist on the cement. I had no idea what brought this on, but at least he seemed to be enjoying himself.

"Normally people wait until the punch-line to laugh, but--"

He said something, but it came out strangled and muffled.

"I'm sorry, what?"

He pulled his head away from the ledge, his eyes blue fireworks and his smile wide on his face. "You _yelled_ politely, maybe. You--you threw--the mirror--" Apparently, it was too much for him to handle, and he burst into a fit of chuckles again.

And I realized that he remembered. He had been there in New Orleans, so why . . . Why weren't we friends? Had he bailed me out and I'd just . . . ditched him? "House, are you--'

"That was seriously you?! What am I saying--divorce papers; you were carrying divorce papers--of course it was you! I _knew_ you looked familiar! Do you have _any_ idea how close I was to bailing you out? But then I thought, well, what kind of idiot bails out total strangers just to get totally plastered with? I can't believe that was _you!_ You, with all your perfect little manners and the messiah complex and--" Laughter bubbled over his lips again, and he couldn't talk anymore.

I remembered the police arresting me and House (although I hadn't known it was him at the time) laughing pointedly at me. I had been more than surprised to see him on the other side of the bars, telling me he took care of it. My parents had never found out about that little mishap--after all, I had always been the 'good kid' whereas Peter and Danny had always been the ones getting into trouble.

Seeing him laugh made me laugh too, and before I knew it, we were both leaning over, clutching our sides. I remembered the shame of being locked up in a place I didn't know, with no one to care, hating myself for ruining my marriage, and the next moment, being dragged to the nearest bar to get drunk with.

I was the only interesting person at that conference--he had told me that during the whole fiasco with his father's funeral. Although he wouldn't admit it, I believed that was only half of the reason--he had noticed the divorce papers, even when no one else had. Here, it had still happened--he had still been there, but instead of taking a chance on me, he had done what anybody else would've--kept his cash and spent it on hookers or drugs or whatever it was House spent his money on at the time.

We looked at each other, his face lit up and his eyes sparkling, and just a moment later, the smile faded from his face and I realized I had stopped laughing, too.

He was looking at me with an expression I had only seen on his face a handful of times, and only half of those had been directed at me. The other half had been reserved for Stacy. With nothing but the dividing wall between us, it would be too easy to lean over and kiss him.

"To think that a few months later you were taking over for Doctor Buzzkill for skipping off, and I didn't even know it was you . . ." He let out a half-chuckle that was more of a sigh, and it clouded in front of his face for a second.

A few months? He'd told me about the opening less than a month later.

I could see it now--without him to offer me the job, someone had taken the position and set up in the only available place--next to his office. House hadn't had any friends, nobody really liked him, and he'd probably made the doctor's life a living hell--he made everyone's life a living hell. He must've left, and that must've been when I applied.

He tilted his head at me, and unless I was mistaken, he looked at my mouth. "It's cold," he informed, then jutted his chin towards my office. "Let's get inside before I freeze my nuts off."

I nodded and moved towards my office, glancing over my shoulder to see him climbing over the dividing wall with less ease than I remembered. He gripped his thigh and scowled, but I knew better than to offer him help.

I opened the door for him and he brushed past me, his elbow grazing my abdomen.

When I stepped into my office and shut the door, I realized that it really had been cold outside if only because of the warmth inside. I took off my coat and hung it up, turning to see House tossing his coat on my couch carelessly, his cheeks red from the temperature.

He rubbed his hands together, only two steps from me, and stared directly at my chest. "That tie sucks," he told me.

"You think all my ties suck."

"That one sucks more than usual," he amended, then took a large step forward, only inches from me. He focused on the tie for a long second, then his eyes travelled up slowly to meet mine. "It looks like a noose, too." He fingered the knot briefly, his eyes locked on mine and his brows raised.

I had known him long enough to tell when he was trying to tell me something. The way his eyes wouldn't waver always gave it away. It took a second to click, and then my stomach dropped out. Noose. Oh, God.

"Y-You know that . . . that I . . ." I stammered, unable to actually articulate what I had been planning to do. Of course he knew--he noticed everything. And the background checks . . . Perhaps he'd figured out my password and read the suicide note before I did, or maybe he had just noticed my strange behaviour. Everybody else in the hospital saw the perfect, clean-cut oncologist who managed to shoulder a lot of responsibility. House would've seen what a screw-up I really was. An inappropriate response to a question, the longing look at the ground so far beneath the balcony . . . Who knew what tell-tale signs the other me had made?

One corner of his mouth quirked upward, and his fingers slid down my tie. It was an intimate gesture--one that seemed at odds considering what we were talking about, but perhaps he was trying to be comforting. "I suspected, yeah. You're not exactly great at subterfuge. You should leave all the covert crap to me." His fingers slid up the tie slowly.

My pager went off and he sighed, taking a step back from me. My heart was still beating in my throat, and I felt like an idiot. When I read the page, I let out a groan, turning it off. "My patient coded. Look, House, I know what you think, and I . . . I deleted it. I'm not suicidal; I swear."

He blinked. "Suicidal? What are you talking about?"

"What are _you_ talking about?"

"I was talking about your tie. What, were you planning on--" He mimed hanging by his neck on a rope, tongue lolling out and eyes rolled upward.

"Well, no, I wasn't, but . . ." But the other me had been. And apparently, he hadn't read my suicide note, and we had been talking about two different things entirely. I stuffed my pager in my pocket. "Look, I have to go."

He nodded, shifting his weight awkwardly, and I left my office, more than a little glad to be able to get the hell out of there. I had just blurted out the fact I had been suicidal to someone who had been talking about something that I should've known, but I had absolutely no idea what.

* * *

_The click of his door closing echoed in his office, as if it were a cavern--an enclosed cavern filled with ice and water and darkness. House stood by his desk, eyebrows halfway up his forehead, and mere inches from the mail stacked on his desk. The mail his secretary had handed to him hours ago. The mail that had been handed to her from the mail-boy, who had gotten it out of stacks of other people's mail, that had been handled by the post office, and they had gotten it from Bonnie._

_Bonnie, who had just filed for divorce; who had filed for it in their house, on their table, and it sent it to his work; who was probably wrapping all of his things in bubble-wrap and Styrofoam, packing them gently into boxes she would label neatly._

_Bonnie, who had rolled on top of him the night before last and started kissing his throat, and he had been too tired to remember that he'd had bite marks and hickies on his collarbone; who must've had the files somewhere in their house long before then, if he was getting it in the mail less than forty-eight hours after telling her that he hadn't been faithful._

_He didn't tell her with how many women he had slept with. He didn't even tell her that the hickies she had seen weren't even from a woman. He didn't have to--it didn't matter who he had slept with, or what gender that person was, or even that it had been someone else he'd been thinking about when he'd been sucked off in the bathroom at the bar. It didn't matter, because she had been looking for any excuse to leave. He wasn't upset that she was leaving him, so much as he was upset that he was a failure. He had failed at another marriage, and it was entirely his fault._

_It wasn't his job--she hadn't minded the late hours. It was the fact he had just stopped caring. That he had just stopped loving her, and he wondered if he had ever really loved her in the first place. He had met her when she was in a bad situation. He hadn't wanted a relationship, and it just happened. Making her feel better made him feel like a good man . . . But was that all it was? Marrying someone who made him feel like he wasn't such a failure? It was him she was divorcing. She probably didn't even care about the people he slept with. She just needed a reason to leave._

_He couldn't avoid his office forever, although he'd been doing a pretty good job for the past few hours, just so he wouldn't have to look at the package._

_The package House was currently inches from._

"_What are you doing here?" Wilson asked, too tired to put any real venom behind his words. Ever since his team had left, House had been making his life hell. He'd been leaving obscene messages on his cell phone, paging him with dirty little limericks, leaving flaming bags of tapioca pudding on the linoleum outside of his door, and an ungodly number of other immature pranks. Wilson had been tempted to respond by pulling some of his own, but he was far more mature than that. He wouldn't stoop to House's level._

"_Planning a spectacular prank," he answered as he stepped away from his desk, the smirk on his face pure evil. "Seems like your wife got there first, though."_

"_Can we not do this just now?" Wilson asked, moving towards his desk so he could sit while he opened the package--so he could sit while he signed away his marriage._

_House stepped in front of him so he couldn't move any further. "Another divorce, huh? That won't look good on your relationship résumé."_

"_As I imagine sleeping with hookers does," Wilson spat, then tried to walk around him, but House stood in front of him again._

"_This is what we're gonna do--I'm taking you to a strip club, you're gonna buy us a few lap dances, and we're going to get totally drunk. It's one of those man rituals, which you'd know if you weren't such a chick."_

"We_ are not going to do anything. I'm going to go back to work, and you're going to . . . Don't you have a patient to occupy yourself with?"_

_House intercepted him again. "Doctor Buffer's on it."_

"_Doctor who?"_

"_Oh, I wish. That TARDIS would be pretty convenient."_

"_I meant--"_

"_He's my secret weapon," he answered evasively. "So, whaddaya say? Me, you, a tittie bar with a spectacular view . . ."_

_Wilson rubbed his palm across his forehead, then pinched his nose, squeezing his eyes shut. "Why do you have to do this? Why do you have to constantly bother me and leave all those messages and . . . and the flaming bags of pudding . . ."_

"_Maybe I'm flirting with you."_

_Wilson lowered his hand and blinked at House, who looked entirely serious. He ignored the fact that those blue eyes popped up in his mind far more than they should've in situations that were far from appropriate, and shook his head. "Well, seeing as some of us have matured since grade school, I actually need to get back to work, so . . ." He moved to walk around House again, but the asshole limped right back in front of him._

"_Oh, come on, Jimmy, the world won't blow up if you stop being a grown-up for awhile."_

"_Don't call me Jimmy," he ordered, hands balling up into fists at the very sound of it._

"_God, the great James Wilson, always clean-cut and perfect and so damn pristine . . ." He took a step forward, invading Wilson's personal space. He narrowed his eyes. "You need to relax. Let your hair down . . . Take off that ridiculous tie and just _party."

"_My tie is just fine, and unlike you, I actually take pride in my job."_

"_Pride? You show that by wearing something that looks like a cat puked all down your front?" He took a smaller step forward, and grabbed his tie, scrutinizing it as if it were his patient, and not whoever Doctor Buffer was currently taking care of. Had he hired a new fellow and Wilson not known about it? "You're the only person I know who manages to make his tie look like a noose."_

_His throat closed up, as if the very word had caused him to choke. House's fingers slid up the silk, and then down, almost flirtatiously. He was scowling at it, as if it had insulted him. Wilson swallowed the lump in his throat. "A noose?"_

_House nodded, then slowly undid Wilson's tie. He could've shoved him off, but he didn't. He let his fingers weave his tie until it hung loosely on his shoulders, chests so close they almost touched every time they breathed._

_That should've been the end. But it wasn't. That should've been where House stepped away and made some smartass remark, but he didn't. Instead, he pressed his palms flat against his chest and ran them down, head tilting to the other side, as if studying Wilson's reaction, which should've been to shove him away. Wilson just stood there, feeling the heat of House's hands through his shirt._

_His tie slipped off of his shoulder and landed on the floor beside him, and he glanced down at it for a second before looking back at House, who was leaning forward._

_Wilson pulled his head back slightly, suddenly nervous. "Wh-what are you doing?"_

"_You know what I'm doing," House said, his voice a gruff whisper, then leaned in again--slower this time, so that Wilson could pull away._

_A knock on the door interrupted whatever it was that was about to happen, and House took a large step back, lips pulled into a tight line as Wilson turned to regard the entrant, randomly irritated but he refused to admit why, because then that meant he would have to admit that those eyes boring down into his, inches from his face, was something he wanted._

"_Wilson, have you seen--" Cuddy began, but immediately closed her mouth when she saw that House was in his office. "What are you doing in here?" she demanded, folding her arms and looking between them._

"_Trying to make out," House answered and Wilson's stomach lurched._

_Cuddy rolled her eyes. "Get in my office," she ordered harshly, icy eyes narrowed dangerously in House's direction._

"_But Moooooooooom," he whined obnoxiously._

"_Now," she ordered, then turned and walked out, as if expecting House to follow._

_House turned back to Wilson and his slight grin unnerved him. Wilson realized just what he'd almost allowed the ass to do. House moved, as if to give him a goodbye peck that was far too intimate for two people who didn't even like each other, and he took a step back, shaking his head. "No. Get out."_

_House's face fell, and hardened. "You wanted me to--"_

"_Get out of my office," he interrupted, not wanting to hear the rest of the sentence, even if it might have been true. He pointed at the door, clenching his jaw shut._

_House stood there, glaring at him, and for a wild moment, Wilson wondered if he was going to hit him. "You're not fooling anybody," he snapped instead, then limped out of his office, slamming the door shut._

_Shakily, Wilson made his way to his desk, sitting on his chair. For a second that lasted an eternity, everything was quiet and calm, and then--_

_CRACK!_

_With a thwack to the back of his head, he found himself staring at his ceiling, his chair broken and pressing in on his back awkwardly. He gasped for air, his lungs momentarily paralyzed, and he realized a few seconds later than he should've that House had filed through the legs of his chair._

* * *

A/N--I just wanna say thanks for all the people who enquired after me yesterday, and that (since I hadn't checked over the chapter before posting) I'd forgotten that it was the Suicide Note chapter. I wrote this story two months ago and so the fact I posted that the same day I had a horrible, rotten day was totally coincidental. I am not suicidal and I'm sorry if I gave the wrong impression.


	12. Chapter 12

Chapter Twelve

"I like pudding," House said as we stood in the lunch-line, while he placed a cup of chocolate pudding on his plate.

I grabbed two cups and placed them beside my green beans--something I knew House wouldn't touch. I knew that he would steal one of pudding cups, but I didn't much care. After all, I was used to it, even if he didn't think I was.

"I like pickles," I told him, scooping some mashed potatoes onto my plate.

House made an over-exaggerated face of disgust, then grabbed a bag of chips. "I like steaks."

"As do I," I agreed, then stood in front of the cashier. "I'll be paying for his," I told her. She nodded and rung up both of our plates. I paid, then we both walked towards the tables in the cafeteria. We bypassed a few empty tables and he led the way to the first empty booth, as far away from the rest of the crowd as possible.

He sat across from me, then scowled at the green beans I had beside my pudding. "I like _real_ food," he said, pointing at my beans so that I knew just what he was insulting when he scowled.

"I like being healthy," I replied, stabbing some green beans with my fork.

"Says the alcoholic oncologist who smokes," he muttered as I chewed my green beans. "I like . . . oranges."

"I like bananas."

"Oh, I _bet_ you do," he said with a saucy wink. House stole one of my pudding cups, as I knew he would, while I rolled my eyes. "I like stealing your food."

"So I noticed." I grabbed the other pudding cup and brought it closer to my chest, so that I could bat away his hand if he tried to steal it as well. "I like chocolate."

"Who doesn't? I like ice cream cake."

"I like pizza," I told him, digging into my mashed potatoes.

"I like the Ninja Turtles."

I nodded, agreeing with him. "I like Leonardo."

"Figures. He's such a wuss. I like Raphael."

"I thought you liked Mikey?"

"I do. I like them all, actually." He tore off the lid to the pudding cup he'd stolen from me, and shoved a spoonful in his mouth. His looked upward in thought, then shrugged. "I like April."

"I like February."

He scoffed and shoved another spoonful in his mouth, which he swallowed quickly. "Of course you do. I like summer. Winter makes my leg hurt like a bitch." As if to prove a point, he rubbed his thigh and pulled out his bottle of Vicodin. I watched silently as he popped a few pills. He took a sip of his soda, then raised an eyebrow at me. "What? It's your turn."

"Does Cuddy prescribe all of your pills?" I asked, somehow doubting that she gave him enough to cover all of the ones he popped.

He raised his eyebrows. "This conversation is suddenly boring."

"Whether she does or not, I don't care either way," I promised, just curious as to where he got all of them from.

"Some of them. I get most of them on the street. I like _The L Word,"_ he muttered, getting us back onto the original topic that he, apparently, preferred.

"I like _El Feugo del Amor,"_ I told him, stabbing some more of my green beans. He raised an eyebrow at me. "What? For a novella, it's not all that bad."

"I like _General Hospital,"_ he said with a shrug, as if admitting that he had no right to critique my tastes. Which, honestly, having watched both shows, he really didn't.

"I like good acting," I retorted with a smirk, just so that he'd known I was commenting on what his show considered acting.

He winced. "Ouch, that may have stung a little." He opened his hamburger and threw his pickles onto my plate, then took a sloppy bite out of it, chewing thoughtfully. His eyes lit up and he swallowed. "I like beer--which, by the way you won't forget to bring tomorrow, right?"

"Of course not," I promised with a smile. "I like New Year's."

He rolled his eyes. "I like this whole crap about resolutions that you seem to have taken on a few days early."

"I never said quitting smoking and drinking less was part of my resolution. I happen to like my liver, thank you."

"I like that you're totally letting me corrupt you."

"I like that you think it's corruption."

"I like that you totally brutalized _Auld Lang Syne_ on my piano," he said quickly, leaning forward, a glint of competition in his eyes, and I grinned.

Were we making a game out of this? "I like that I got you playing again."

"I like that you think you did, you smug bitch," he responded quickly.

"I like the fact you are in denial."

He rolled his eyes. "Oh, I like hearing _that,_ let me tell you," he muttered sarcastically.

"I like you," I said, then instantly regretted it. Even in my reality, we didn't talk about our feelings--except for that once, when he decided to ram a knife in an electrical socket. House avoided emotional subjects more often than not, and so it just went unsaid. Besides, I more than 'liked' him, and when I said it, it was only completely obvious. I think he wanted me, too--at least, I suspected he had feelings for me, but what if it wasn't enough for him to take a chance?

He stared at me for a long time, and I worried that he might get up and storm off. In fact, I expected it. I could hear all of his taunts now--him making fun of me, him deciding that I was being too honest about how I felt too soon into the friendship, that I was moving too fast . . .

He smiled and lowered his head so that I couldn't see, but it was too late. A second later he looked back at me, the smile gone, but the brightness in his eyes was still there. He nodded once, and my panic disappeared immediately.

"I like macadamia nut pancakes," he said, then kicked my foot gently with his own, and I knew what he really meant.

* * *

"I'm bored," House announced when he strolled into the exam room.

I blinked at him, holding my stethoscope against the patient's chest. She looked between us, as if unsure it had really happened. "My condolences," I said to him, then turned back to the patient. "Breathe deeply, please."

She sucked in as much breath as possible, and there was some crackling in her chest. She let out a discreet cough.

"Let's play hooky," he said, limping closer to us. "All the cool kids do it."

"Ah, the wonderful world of peer pressure." I moved the stethoscope lower, and she fidgeted uncomfortably, staring at House. "And again, please."

She took in a deeper breath than last time, and there was less crackling.

"Ah, come on, Jimmy. If we hang out under the bleachers, we can look up all the hot girls' skirts."

"I could finally mark 'get arrested for sexual harassment' off of my to-do list." I pulled the stethoscope out of my ears and let it hang over my shoulders. "Well, you do have bronchitis. You'll be needing a prescription for that. Are you sure you have no prior history of medical allergies?" She shook her head, and I nodded. "I'll be back in a moment."

I left the room, and House followed. "There's nothing to do. Why should we be forced to stay cooped in like this? It's cruel and unusual, I tell you."

"You could always try getting rid of those clinic hours you seem to have an obnoxious amount of." As I strolled over to the pharmacy, I pulled out my prescription pad, noticing that House watched it intently. I scribbled down my patient's prescription, acting like I didn't know why House would be so fascinated with it.

"Come on!" he whined petulantly, and it sounded authentic. "We could watch the newest romcom and mock it mercilessly. Could be fun."

I nodded, conceding to his point. "Perhaps after work."

"Killjoy."

I stood in front of the pharmacist and placed the prescription on the counter. He looked between us, as if surprised to see us, and for a moment it confused me. Then I remembered he'd probably never seen the two of us standing together.

I was randomly nostalgic and homesick at the same time. It was an uncomfortable situation.

"I could get you a new prescription for Vicodin, while I'm here," I offered, looking slyly at him. It wasn't that I enjoyed him being an addict, but I'd rather know where he got his pain killers than have him getting them from some drug dealer who had laced them with God knows what.

He narrowed his eyes suspiciously at me. Then shrugged. "I never turn down free drugs."

I quickly wrote him up a prescription, and when the pharmacist came back with my patient's medicine, I smiled politely at him. "If you could fill this, please," I said politely.

He looked between us again. He stared at the scrip, looked at me, then at the scrip again. He handed over the vial of bronchitis medicine, then ambled off to where the Vicodin was. I glanced down at the medicine in my hand, then glanced over at House, who was staring at me still, as if at any moment I was going to admit to it being a prank the whole time.

When he returned with the Vicodin, he didn't bother handing it back to me. House took it and pocketed it, grinning at me. "Dude, you are the best boyfriend ever!" he exclaimed, quite a bit louder than I felt comfortable with. My face was suddenly hot, and I rubbed my palm down my face in exasperation. He looked at the pharmacist and wrapped his arm around me, squeezing my shoulders tightly. "Oh, you only wish you could have one of these."

I extricated myself from his arm and raised my eyebrows at him. "Could we keep the PDA at a minimum, please? Unlike you, I actually value my reputation." I shot an apologetic glance at the pharmacist, who looked like he was either about to scream hysterically, or die of shock. Possibly both. "Thank you," I said pointedly, then walked back towards the exam room, knowing House was right beside me.

Several of the nurses were staring at us. I looked at the ground, half-embarrassed, but half-amused.

"You know, you're taking this whole friendship thing into stride. Really well, in fact," he informed.

"I'm a fast learner," I replied, trying not to smirk as I opened the door and stepped into the exam room.

She looked at us again, and fidgeted slightly when her eyes settled on House.

"It took you fifteen years to pull your head out of your ass. I don't really think that's the case."

"Take these twice a day, and make sure you eat beforehand," I told her, handing the vial of medication over and smiling as reassuringly as I could. I glanced over my shoulder at him just as the door finally swung shut. He stood there with his cane firmly planted on the ground, still staring at me as if he was trying to figure me out. I raised my eyebrows at him. "While we're on the subject, you're catching on rather quickly, as well. Am I to assume something dire?"

"You've been wanting this for awhile," he stated, and he lowered his chin to his chest. "Nobody tries this hard and does it so well unless they've put some serious thought into it."

"Maybe I like a challenge." I smiled at my patient again and put a hand on her shoulder. "It should clear up within a week, but make sure to take every pill. If you stop taking it beforehand, the bronchitis could become immune and more difficult to manage if you get it again."

"It's almost like second nature to you." There was an accusatory note to his voice.

"Our relationship really isn't so different," I said.

"Uh, and what planet have you been living on?"

"Are you two dating?" my patient asked, her eyes wide and ticking between us like she couldn't decide who was more interesting.

"Yep," House answered gleefully. "So you best stop eye-raping him unless you want me to challenge you to a duel. And trust me--angry old cripple with a cane? You do _not_ wanna piss me off. Now vamoose--I've got a hankering for some hot, gay man-lovin', and a whole exam room to play with."

She didn't seem to know whether or not to believe him, but then she just nodded and left the room, shutting the door quietly as she left, as if trying not to disturb us.

"I think you've just scarred her for life," I commented, smiling at him.

"Oh, don't worry about her," he dismissed with a hand-wave. "She's probably gonna blog all about it or write some slashy doctor literotica. It's all the rage with teenage girls."

"She was in her thirties."

"Well, housewives get lonely. At least she's not doing something with peanut butter and the pet dog. So anyway, onto the subject of you so clearly wanting me . . ."

I shook my head and chuckled airily. "I'm not the one declaring we're boyfriends at the top of my lungs or broadcasting it every chance I get."

He took a large step closer. "No, but you're the one who started the whole rumour in the first place."

I walked closer as well, only a foot or so from him, to show that I was not intimidated by him getting into my personal space. "Only so that I could be in the room with you."

"You stayed all night. Not the actions of someone who couldn't give a rat's ass."

"I care about you. There. May I go back to work now, or do you need to sort out through any more issues that have been plaguing you?"

"Why'd you think I was talking about suicide?"

Well, that had taken a turn I hadn't been expecting. And it was definitely not something I wanted to discuss. I took a few steps backwards, and only stopped when I felt the examination table pressed sharply into the small of my back.. "It's nothing."

"It's something."

"Nothing you'd be interested in," I amended.

"Ah-hah. The fact you're don't want me to know makes it interesting."

I sighed and pinched the bridge of my nose. Of course it did But what could I say? That the other me was suicidal but I wasn't him anymore? "Look, it's nothing interesting. I . . . had a document that, well, if one were to read it, it could be interpreted as suicidal. I was . . . having a hard time, I was feeling spectacularly depressed . . ."

He took a large step forward, inches from me. His eyes were sharp and clear and dangerous. He knew I was trapped, and he was going to drag the truth out of me like he always managed to do. "Uh-huh . . ."

"W-Well, I deleted it. I thought, perhaps, you had read it and . . . Because you mentioned a noose."

He fingered my tie again, a small smirk on the side of his mouth. I thought back to the moment in my office, and wondered what he'd been referencing. "But you're not suicidal?"

"No. I'm not."

"Because you've got so much in your life, I'm sure. An empty apartment you used to share with your dead girlfriend, two failed marriages, dozens of dying kids, not to mention depression medication that you didn't refill last month when you should've . . ." He moved closer, a dangerous glint in his eye, and had my back not been pressed against the cold exam table, I would've pulled away.

I swallowed. "House, look, it's nothing to get excited over. I'm _not_ suicidal."

"Of course not. You've got our wonderful friendship to look forward to every day, right?" he muttered sarcastically, rolling his eyes, then focused on my tie, which he was still playing with.

I couldn't respond to that. If I lied and said no, or even got sarcastic about it, he might take offence. After all, this relationship was new to him, and he was used to me actually hating him. If I told him the truth, that obviously (which was actually news to me) House being my friend would prevent my suicide, then he would scoff and mock me.

Silence was consent, though, because he nodded. "You know, I don't subscribe to the Lifetime channel for a reason," he remarked, but there was a gentle taunting tone to it that stopped it from sounding harsh.

"You have that channel."

"It came with the package," he replied with a shrug. "Play hooky with me."

Thank God we were off the suicide topic. "I told you I would after work."

He groaned and stomped his left foot a little, stepping away from me. "You can't skip work if you don't _have_ it. Come on, who's gonna notice?"

He wasn't pressed against me anymore, and suddenly it was cold, although it was much easier to breathe. Sighing, I walked over to the disposal bin and took off the latex gloves, tossing them away. "Oh, I don't know . . . Cuddy, perhaps?"

"You've been the perfect little Jewish boy every mommy could want for the past fifteen years. I'm sure she'll let one little incident slide. You could always bat your lashes and rub the back of your neck and beg her forgiveness if she finds out."

"Or I could stay here, go to my next appointment, do my afternoon rounds, and finish up some paperwork," I suggested, heading towards the door.

"In what world is that the pleasant alternative to fun?"

I opened the door and he walked out first. I closed the door behind me and we started walking over towards the elevator. "I know responsibility is a foreign concept to you, but maybe one day when you grow up, you'll understand."

"I'll never grow up," he insisted haughtily.

"I believe it."

House jammed the elevator call button with a flourish. "But I wanna do something. I'm bored, and throwing popcorn at snotty too-attractive adults pretending to be teens is fun!"

"I said I'd go after work."

The doors slid open and a few people made their way out. House and I stepped in, and the doors closed, blocking us off from the rest of the world. He pressed the button to our floor. "Hey, you know I flirt with you, right?" he asked, voice bright and cheery.

I thought of him getting into my personal space and him playing with my tie, and of us holding hands on his piano. "I had noticed," I told him a second later, as my mind started remembering things that he couldn't possibly be thinking of--things that had happened in my reality. Fear of him not reciprocating my feelings was the main reason I'd never done anything, but maybe it had blinded me, too.

"And you don't mind." I don't know if he meant it as a question, but it didn't sound like it.

"Have I ever?"

"Yes," he answered without hesitation.

I looked at him and saw his expression. There was something written there that I couldn't place, and figured he was referring to something I wouldn't know about. I shrugged. "Well I don't now," I told him.

"Why is that?"

"Resistance is futile," I said dryly, giving him the most serious look I could muster.

"Took ya long enough to figure that out." He rocked back on his heels, staring up at the ceiling as if reading something imprinted on there. Looking at him reminded me again of where I was--noticing his thin frame, at the bags under his eyes, and at the way he just didn't seem quite right when he talked to me. I couldn't place what it was that was different with our conversations, but something was.

The door dinged and it opened. We both stepped out and I made my way to my office. I opened my door and waited for him to walk past me, but he didn't. I watched him finish going towards his office, and it disoriented me.

House and I always seemed to walk together and end up at the same place, whether it be his office or mine. Somehow, we both always knew where we were going, even when we didn't say anything. He always walked into my office with me, or I walked into his with him, or we would wait outside my office to finish up our conversation if we both decided to move separate ways.

I had expected him to follow me, and he hadn't.

I stood by the door, and tried to remember if our arms had brushed at all while we had walked from the exam room to the pharmacist, or to the elevator, or from the elevator to my office.

They hadn't.

* * *

House decided that if he couldn't catch the early movie that took place during work, then he might as well go to the show at night, when people are "supposed" to watch movies together. So, instead of hanging out with him for a few hours until the late shows started, I had told him I needed to run some errands, and that I would pick him up a half-hour before anything started. I had no idea what movie he wanted to see, but that allowed us enough time to choose.

Of course, I hadn't needed to run errands. I had all the groceries I needed and there wasn't anything else necessary I needed to buy.

Instead, I found myself walking into the same bookstore I had set foot in a year ago. I found myself walking to the aisle I'd found the book in, and wondering why the hell I was bothering. My House hadn't bothered to open the present, so why on earth would this one? My House and I were best friends and I had no idea what this House and I were, so what was I expecting? Maybe I just needed him to have a present, or maybe I was attempting to get at least one version of House to open it. Or maybe--and the more I thought about it, this was the most likely reason--I was attempting to find a way back home. It was the damn present that had caused me to make that idiotic wish, and maybe this present would somehow allow me to get back. Maybe a year from now he would open it to screw with his team, and maybe then I could be upset, show up at a bar, drink some beer and find Noel, make a wish, and find myself home.

Or maybe I was just pathetically in love.

I wrapped it in the same green wrapping paper--it was the same shade of green that Julie hated--and wrote the exact same note as I had last year. Was I testing him? Did I want him to open the present or not? What was I doing? I was being completely idiotic! I was just setting myself up for disappointment--although I supposed I had been doing the same last year. I knew he didn't like presents. Normally, I didn't bother to wrap them, but I had been so busy with Amber and keeping our relationship secret that I didn't have time to hand it over and spend all day and night with him.

So when I pulled my Volvo up to his house and parked next to the curb, I sat in the driver's seat, looking at my reflection in the rear-view mirror; the reflection that wasn't quite mine. The bags, the slight wrinkles, the slight weight loss . . .

Sighing, I got out of the car and looked at the gift I held in my hand. I went up to his door and knocked on it, still expecting him to tell me to use my key even though I didn't have it. Not here, anyway.

The door opened and House stood on the other side. He was barely even smiling, but his eyes were bright and happy. "You're early," he greeted.

"I come bearing gifts," I told him. I was only five minutes early, so I suppose it didn't matter. I held out the present. He stared at it as if it might bite him, or at least explode. "It's not going to attack you, House."

"Why'd you buy me something?"

"Belated Christmas present."

"You're Jewish."

"Am I? Damn, I always forget that. It explains that oddly shaped candelabra I have stashed in my closet somewhere."

He took it and glanced at the card taped to it. He raised his eyebrows briefly, then shrugged. "Hold on a minute," he said, turning around and heading back into his apartment. I watched him through the still-open door as he placed it on the coffee table, then he hobbled his way out of the door and shut it.

I followed him to my car and watched him slide across the hood, like some teenager who'd watched _Dukes of Hazard_ far too many times. I laughed.

* * *

House picked the romantic comedy and he'd spent most of the time mocking the actors and laughing at inappropriate times. The people around us were so annoyed they moved to a different spot. House drank all of my soda so I had to get another one and we shared all the candy I bought. He started tossing popcorn at the screen and giving himself points (loudly) depending on what part of the actors the popcorn hit. A few teen boys two rows behind us joined in on the fun, and hopped over the seats to start in on the mocking. It wasn't long after that when the usher came in and escorted us all out, even though I had behaved and kept all my food and comments to myself.

I should've been annoyed, but I really wasn't.

So instead of finding out if the boy and girl really did end up together in the end (as if there was a doubt in my mind) we were being politely led out, with me apologizing profusely to the manager and House making snide comments the entire time.

When the theatre's doors closed behind us, we both stared at each other, holding popcorn and soda and an armful of candy, and burst into laughter.

"House, I can't believe you did that! No, wait--actually, I can."

"I can't believe you just sat there and tried to act all morally outraged. I know you wanted to smack that grinning idiot in the face with a Sour Patch."

"I have more class than that. I would have at least used the Twizzlers."

He raised an eyebrow at me. "No you wouldn't have. Face it--you have to live out all your dangerous impulses through me. I am your Tyler Durden."

I rolled my eyes, but I knew the smile on my face detracted from the gesture. "Only you would think being kicked out of a movie as an enjoyable experience. Personally, I'm embarrassed."

"If my smile looked as goofy as yours, I'd be embarrassed too." He shoved a handful of M&M's in his mouth, then washed it down with his Coke.

I stepped off the curb and onto the slushy parking lot, the grey half-melted snow splashing up around my ankles. "You do know that the half-eaten Snickers bar is going to be hell to clean off."

"Hell, that's what they get paid for. The way I see it, if I didn't make a mess, some poor pimply-faced teenager would be out of a job. I am contributing to our economy."

"Yes, you are capitalism's messiah."

"I've come to redeem Wall Street of their sins. Hey, you think they'll start a religion after me?"

I managed to fish my keys out of my pocket, but was having more than a little trouble with pressing the button to unlock it. I did, after all, have a bag of popcorn and an armful of candy; not to mention the large Coke. "That is the last thing this world needs. Your ego is already large enough as it is." We slowed beside the car and I tried to find a way to hold the keys and all the junk food without spilling everything to the ground.

House scoffed. "Here, let me." He only had a bag of M&M's and a large Coke to handle, so he placed them on top of my Volvo and reached forward, tugging the keys from my hand. I heard the familiar beeps signalling my car had unlocked, and he opened the car door for me.

"Thanks," I murmured, then got into my car, placing my soda in the cup holder and all of my candy in the backseat. "I really ought to have thrown all that away."

"Well, hindsight's twenty-twenty. Guess we'll have to eat it all now." He tossed my keys into my lap and shut the door.

I waited for him to get inside the car to start up the engine, and when he got buckled in, I pulled out of the parking lot. Little dots of white appeared on the windshield, and I turned on my wipers.

"This wasn't so bad," House said, staring out of his window so I couldn't see his expression.

"With the exception of the fact I may have given myself a cavity, my stomach is going to rebel against all the sugar in the morning, and the fact we are two grown men who contributed to delinquency and got thrown out of a theatre, I guess so."

"Oh, you know you loved it."

I smiled and glanced in the rear-view mirror. I could see on side of his face that way, and the fact he thought he was hiding a soft, contented smile. "Yeah," I agreed, then stared back out of my windshield.

He turned up the radio and we listened to that the entire way back to his apartment. He sang along with most of the songs whereas I just hummed. It wasn't until I pulled up in front of his home that he spoke again.

"You still comin' over tomorrow?" he asked tentatively.

And it was his tone that made me realize what was so different about him. He wasn't sure about us; hell, I wasn't sure about us. He didn't know how far he could push. My House wasn't afraid to order and push and insult and get into my space--this House was testing me. Oh, my House tested me too--he tested me constantly--but not like this. He tested me, knowing that I would pass and most likely because he was bored and trying to annoy me. This House was literally unsure of how far he could go.

We had been friends so long I had forgotten what it was like to work up to our relationship.

I missed home so much at the moment I was nearly nauseous. I had been homesick before many times, but never like this. Never so much I was almost in tears--not even when I was a child. This wasn't a vacation--I was somewhere entirely different. The faces I recognized weren't the same, my life was a mockery of everything I'd grown accustomed to, and everything around me was similar, but too different for my tastes.

"Of course," I reassured.

He nodded once, then squeezed my shoulder so briefly that I could've written it off as accidental or habitual, if not for the fact I knew House wasn't a touchy-feely type of person, which meant he had decided to do it on purpose.

Our eyes met. He froze for a minute, and my breath hitched in my throat. I realized this entire night out had been a date--he even opened the door for me. He looked at my mouth, and I readied myself.

Then he got out of the car, taking his M&M's and Coke with him.

* * *

A/N--This was my beta's (re: my dad's) favourite chapter. Also, I know that there aren't any flashbacks in this one--I wanted to compare and contrast their present relationship in this universe versus the "real" one.


	13. Chapter 13

Chapter Thirteen

"_You're dating Cutthroat Bitch!" House accused, very loudly, in the clinic._

_Several patients waiting stared at the deranged madman with a cane, and Wilson felt his cheeks burn. He closed the file he was looking at, and strolled over to House, fuming. "Her name is Amber," he informed angrily, then started towards the exam room where he needed to go._

_House, apparently, had other plans, and stepped in front of him. "You're only dating her because I fired her!"_

"_You only fired her so you could trick Cuddy into hiring a third member--which, in case you've forgotten, is Amber, and yet, I still have plans tomorrow night for a date." He brushed past House, trying to ignore the fact several nurses and patients were staring at him, and headed towards the exam room he needed to be in again._

_House was in his face suddenly, nose inches away from his, and blue eyes blazing. "I'm not an idiot, Wilson! I know damn well what you see in her, and don't act like you don't, either!"_

"_I don't care if you--" Wilson shouted, then cut himself off when he realized how loud he was being, and lowered his voice. "I don't care if you fire her or not--I hadn't even intended for it to be a date, I just--"_

"_Yeah, just like all the lunches with nurses were just lunches, and Grace was just--"_

"_Shut up!" he yelled, not wanting him to finish that sentence._

"_I know what you do, Wilson. I know which bars you go to; I know what _people_ you sleep with. I know why Bonnie left you. You can't keep Little Willy in your pants, and don't deny it!"_

_Wilson fidgeted. It wasn't news to anybody--people knew that Wilson slipped up occasionally (not knowing that it was quite a bit more than occasionally) but that didn't mean he needed his flaws dragged out and examined publicly. "That was--I'm not--this isn't--"_

"_She may be a bitch, but she's _my_ employee! If you use her up and discard her like you did to your wives, I will _castrate_ you if she doesn't do it first!"_

"_I'm not going to--"_

"_You're only dating her because she's me!"_

_Unbidden, images of strangers with House's eyes flashed across his mind, and a memory of House, pressing against him, slipping off his tie, followed. "You're being ridiculous," he muttered, then tried to walk past again, but House stood in front of him. "House, will you just--"_

"_House!" came Cuddy's shrill yell, as she clacked her way across the linoleum. House swivelled to glare at her. She got right next to them, her eyes just as intense as his were. "What Doctor Wilson does in his personal life, and what Doctor Volakis does in her personal life, is absolutely none of your business. If you can't keep your conversations civil--or at least quiet--you will do it in the privacy of your own office and _not_ in my clinic, do you understand?"_

_House looked like he was about to argue, but for some reason Wilson couldn't fathom he just walked off, apparently unconcerned with the fact everybody in the clinic was staring at him._

"_Cuddy, I'm sorry, I hadn't meant to--"_

"_If you cheat on her, I won't stop House or Amber from doing whatever they see fit to you," she snapped, then turned on her heel and walked away._

_Wilson was smart enough to realize he deserved it, and dejectedly walked into the exam room._

* * *

I didn't work on New Year's Eve. I had, apparently, taken the day off. Well, _I_ hadn't, but the other me had. It wasn't that I never asked for days off, but I certainly didn't waste them on New Year's Eve. House did--he always tried to get it off--and sometimes he managed to do so; other times, he didn't. On the times he did manage to get it off, I always found I miraculously had it off as well. I suppose House figured that unless he could take the holiday off I wouldn't care. He was right, naturally. He usually was.

But when I showed up at the hospital much to Cuddy's confusion and I asked to see the log, I recognized my handwriting right away. House hadn't forged the suggestion. I had written it down. I had needed it off.

I wondered if I had taken it off to make room for my suicide. Had I planned to do everything I ever wanted to do before death in one day? Or did I just not want to spend my last day alive working?

I asked if House was working today, and Cuddy told me that he had it off. She got this odd little smile on her face when she told me, but didn't say anything about our relationship, although I'm pretty sure she knew why I had asked.

It took me a few hours to actually get to his house, though. I'd decided to take a nap first, but even when I woke up, I'd spent far longer than necessary debating on when to go over, and how. In my universe, House wouldn't have thought it strange if I just let myself in without calling first. In this world, I didn't even have a key.

I pulled my Volvo up to his curb and got out, hoping that he hadn't been expecting a call. I somehow doubted it, but still, with everything else that had crept up on me in the past week, it really wouldn't surprise me.

As I walked up to his door, I heard the familiar notes of his piano--the piano he had tuned a day after I got him playing again (even if he wouldn't admit to it.) I stood by the door for a moment, smiling as I listened to the melody I recognized, but not enough to put a name to it, and I finally rapped on the door when one of his neighbours came out to get something and stared at me strangely.

"It's unlocked!" he called.

I let myself in, and he glanced over at me, fingers dancing across the keys although he wasn't looking at them. He was still in his pyjamas (not that I had expected anything else) and the grin on his face wasn't soft, or content, but dangerous. The same smile he got whenever he realized whatever it was I was trying to hide from him, or when he found the perfect way to cure his boredom.

"That is a truly horrifying smile, House. What have you done?"

"Haven't done anything," he countered, then looked away from me and at the keys.

"What are you _planning_ to do?"

"Get you into my bed by tomorrow morning," he answered without hesitation, and ended the song with a flourish, although I distinctly remember there being at least a minute or so left.

I rolled my eyes. "Good luck with that."

"With some alcohol in our systems, it shouldn't be too hard, and speaking of, where's the beer? You promised." He held his thigh as he swung his legs off of the bench, eyes wide and innocent, like I had denied a child his favourite toy.

I took off my coat and started over to the closet. "It's one in the afternoon. That a bit early to start drinking, don't you think?"

"It's never too early to start drinking."

"I somehow disagree with that," I said, opening the closet door and blinking at the cluttered mess inside. That wasn't new to me, though, and I easily found a place to hang my coat.

"You suck at being an alcoholic," he said from somewhere behind me.

I turned around to see him sitting on the couch, turning on the television with the remote. "That's why I decided to stop being one."

"You should stop dating girls, then, too, if you're going to stop doing what you suck at."

I strolled over to couch and sat down beside him. "I have absolutely no problems whatsoever with dating women. I suck at marrying them." I watched with mild fascination as he flipped through the channels half-heartedly, and I doubted he was really looking for anything particular to watch. He was probably just doing it to do something. Maybe to find some background noise.

"This is where I segue into a gay joke and say maybe you should start dating men instead."

"Ask anybody in the hospital and they'll tell you I already have."

"Maybe I don't wanna make a liar out of you. I mean, we flirt enough as it is, and the past few days we've been together a lot. So, whaddaya say? Date me?"

I chuckled and shook my head. He spoke lightly; obviously he was joking. I turned to look at him, smiling and chuckling, and then I saw the serious expression on his face. His eyebrows were raised and his eyes were pleading. I stopped smiling and straightened my back. "Oh, you're . . . you're serious?"

He scoffed and looked away. "No, idiot. I'm kidding around."

Somehow, I really didn't think he was. I opened my mouth to return to the subject, but then he turned the volume up so that I knew he didn't want to talk anymore.

* * *

We'd watched a few episodes of _The L Word_ that he had recorded on his TiVo, and then he ambled over to the piano and started plunking away at the keys, making up songs and sliding into some classics before playing more modern, upbeat tunes. He never finished any of the them, and switched as often and as easily as he always did. House had a small attention span at times, and it showed on the piano as much as it did anywhere else.

I busied myself with picking up the mess from the impromptu lunch I'd made, ignoring his jibes at my domesticity. I called out suggestions after a few minutes and he played them without hesitation--I knew which songs he hated and loved, and if he found it strange that I managed to pick the ones he enjoyed playing he didn't say anything.

After awhile I leaned against the piano, watching him stare at the keys in concentration--I didn't know if he really was looking, or if he just didn't want to see me standing there. I knew that I was gazing at his hands; at the way they moved blithely over the keys, skin stretching over his knuckles and thinner than I remembered. I hated how he looked consistently sick.

I thought of how he'd talked to me in the elevator yesterday, and the fact he had just asked me out a few hours ago. I knew it was nearly dark outside, and that I would probably have to leave to buy the beer soon, but I was too transfixed on his playing and whether or not he'd really wanted to date me. I was sure he had, but . . .

"I wouldn't have said no," I said, and House held the next note a bit longer than he should've.

The music stopped.

Had I stepped over the line?

He swallowed--I only knew that because I saw his Adam's apple bob. "You have before," he whispered, then hit middle C. It rang out through the apartment, sounding melancholic all on its own.

"Well, it's different now. We're . . . I'm different now."

B flat. It was discordant with the C he'd played before. "You wanted it before too, Wilson. I'm not an idiot. But you still . . ."

"Said no?" I pressed tentatively. A part of me wished I knew what he was talking about, but a larger part of me was somewhat glad I couldn't remember.

C again. "Yeah." I barely heard him, and he switched over to the D note.

I stepped closer and brushed his hair off of his forehead. He looked away from the piano and I pulled my hand back, afraid he might knock it away. His eyes were sad and dull. The bags underneath were more pronounced, and I couldn't help but remember what it was like to see him passed out on the floor, waxy and sallow and puke beside him. At least he didn't look like that, but I couldn't help but wonder how many times he'd woke up after ODing, and I hadn't been there.

He moved his head forward and sort of nudged my palm with his face. I slid my fingers through his hair again, biting back a remark about how it was thinning, and he closed his eyes. He rested his forehead against my abdomen and I kept playing with his hair, feeling how silky it was when tangling around my knuckles briefly. My hand dipped down and brushed the back of his neck, which was visible since he was leaning forward, and I wondered if it tickled because he sucked in air quickly.

His breath was hot through my shirt, and I felt his scalp, pressing down on the bumps and scars, mapping out his head and skin. House didn't let people touch him--hell, even I hadn't touched him like this. Had our friendship hindered our relationship as much as our hatred in this universe had? No rules, no lines, and now we were . . . doing whatever it was we were doing.

His hands were on my waist, as if pinning me in place gently so I couldn't walk away.

I felt his lips against my stomach, and I froze. "You should get the beer," he murmured, and his voice vibrated through my skin and went straight to my groin.

"Yes. Before it gets too late," I agreed, then stepped away from him, my fingers lingering on his face a second too long. He didn't seem to mind, though.

He was quiet as I grabbed my coat from the closet, and my heart fluttered in my chest. I thought of how, had I been the other me, I could've been buying rope or bullets instead. I thought of how my House and I were somehow closer to each other, and yet not, than we were here.

I slipped my coat on and headed towards the door. I was half in the hall when he spoke. "Do you want to know what I think?"

I tilted my head. "What?" I urged on quietly, staring at his bare feet, then at how loose the pyjamas were on him, and finally at his chapped lips.

"I don't think you were ever lying."

He spoke confidently, but I had known him long enough to be able to tell it was a façade. He was asking me out again, and my heart skipped a beat before relocating into my throat. "Not unless you want to make a liar out of me," I said casually, shrugging as I did so. I acted like whatever happened held no interest or consequence, but I knew that it did.

"Well, that settles it, then," he said with a nod. I suppose that could've been taken both ways, but I had a feeling it meant he _didn't_ want to make a liar out of me. After all, he was the one who brought it up in the first place.

Although he was across the room and I was halfway out the door, the way he looked at me made me feel as if we were right next to each other.

House raised his eyebrow. "That beer isn't going to grow legs and walk here all by itself, you know."

I waited until I was out in the hall and the door was closed behind me to grin and pump my fist in the air. Several times. I think I may have even done a little dance too, because the same neighbour who'd come out before I knocked on the door was standing in the hallway again, staring at me like I'd grown another head.

* * *

_Wilson lied in Amber's bed, glad to be away from his depressing hotel room. Sex was still a foreign concept to them, although they had been dating for awhile now. It was a nice change, he supposed. He couldn't remember the last time he met up with someone and didn't have sex. It was nice to just lie in the same bed, make out a little, and get a grope or two without it being about the disposing of condoms afterwards._

"_It's bugging you," she stated._

_He turned onto his side to look at her; they were both on their shoulders, facing one another. She was beautiful in the way that a hawk was beautiful--she was free and powerful but dangerous. She was too far away for him to touch--there, but not there; there, but not within his reach. It was frightening and wonderful to have her lying beside him, with that image of her in mind._

"_What is?"_

_Lying on her bed should've felt intimate and like it meant something, but it really didn't. As horrible as it sounded, that was something he was used to--he'd been in the bed of plenty of strangers and he wasn't even going to get on the subject of his marriages. She touched his face, wearing an all-too familiar smirk he wasn't accustomed to seeing on _her_ face, but someone else's. "That I'm like House," she explained._

"_What? How did you--no, you're _not_ like House; he's an--"_

"_I know what you think he is. And yeah, you're right. But guess what? I can be too. And I know that you hate him. So if you can't be with me because of that--if you _hate_ House--then I can't be all that good for you."_

"_It's different. He's--you're--you're not _him._ It's more than--than that."_

"_Why? Because of conversations and memories? Because if you just can't get along with his personality, I'm not so sure we should take this to the next level. He told me what you usually go for, and that's not me. I'm not needy, you know, and I don't plan on being needy just to please you."_

"_That's not what this is. I . . . I like you."_

_Amber pushed Wilson onto his back and swung her leg over his waist. "That so?" she taunted. He nodded, smiling at her, and she grabbed the tie that he'd worn to their date. "Let's get this ridiculous tie off you," she said, then crushed their lips together._

_He tried not to think of how certain diagnosticians had not liked his ties, or that with his eyes closed, her fingers could've been House's, sliding his tie off and throwing it onto the floor beside the bed._

* * *

I opened House's door with a six-pack in hand, stepping into the living room. "About damn time," he called over his shoulder, already sitting on the couch. The TV was on, but it was on mute. I couldn't see his face, since he was on the couch and therefore facing the opposite direction, but his head was bowed slightly.

"The lines were long. The woman in front of me had over two-hundred dollars worth of groceries."

"You should've had a revolt."

I opened the fridge door and placed the six-pack inside. It was mostly empty, so I didn't have to worry about shifting things around. "Against one woman?"

"I need my beer."

I pulled out two bottles and rolled my eyes. "Now who's the alcoholic?"

"I've been called worse."

I sat next to him, handing over the glass bottle. "Really? That's so incredibly hard to imagine."

It wasn't until it had been longer than a few seconds and he still hadn't taken the bottle from me that I looked at him, and saw that he was reading. And not just any book, either--the book I had bought him. "You . . . opened it," I said, staring at it, knowing I must've looked shocked because I honestly was.

He looked away from it, and I saw that he had his glasses perched on the edge of his nose. "Well, yeah. It was a present. Why wouldn't I?"

I had no idea why he wouldn't open the present, except that he hadn't; not in my world. He closed the book and sat it on the coffee table, placing his folded glasses on top. He took the bottle from my outstretched hand; our fingers brushed. The shock that travelled up my arm reminded me that we were technically dating, although it didn't much feel like anything had changed. How would I know? Everything was different and yet the same here. Perhaps where I was from, I would've been constantly reminded of the fact we were boyfriends. Maybe that was the point of being friends as long as we had been--that if something did change between us, it felt so natural I wouldn't notice. Had he forgotten? Or did he even care?

"I don't know; I guess I just . . . hadn't expected you to open it."

"Then why buy it?" he asked, and I shrugged. I didn't really understand it, except for that apparently I was testing him and he'd failed. I was half-disappointed that he'd opened it. If this House opened my present, why hadn't my House done so? It was a stupid thing, really--I'd been upset in my world when he'd left it unopened for a year, and in this one, when he actually opened it, I hadn't wanted it, if only because that meant I'd done something to make my House not want my present.

"I just thought you might like it."

"And you weren't even expecting anything in return?" I shook my head and he scoffed, rolling his eyes upwards as he took his first sip of beer. "How altruistic of you. Well, I figure dating me is gift enough." He glanced slyly at me, and I knew he was testing my reaction.

"Pity I didn't get a chance to unwrap you."

He shrugged. "Well, the night is still young."

* * *

Three beers and about a half a glass of bourbon later, I felt pleasantly buzzed. I was warm and relaxed, with House's shoulder pressed against mine, and with footage of New York playing quietly in the background. We'd switched it over to the coverage of Times Square to see the ball drop, but until the countdown, I wasn't really all that interested in it.

"You drunk?" he asked, voice gruffer than normal.

"Not really," I answered honestly. I wouldn't trust myself to drive, but if I absolutely had to I suppose I could get away with it. "Perhaps a little."

"Meh, same here."

It took me a second to realize his hand was on my knee, and when I looked at it, his stroked his thumb across the fabric of my jeans slowly. I placed my hand over his and sunk back into the couch a bit more, the buzz deepening slightly. "What's your new year's resolution?" I asked.

"Oh, please. I don't do that crap. Just because it's a brand new year doesn't mean I'm going to be a brand new me. Making resolutions is just another reason to set yourself up for failure. People don't change, and even if they did, it wouldn't be because the minute hand ticked over to midnight."

"People can change, House," I told him, transfixed by how, even though what he said was snarky, his voice was so calm that it hadn't come off that way. Wistful, maybe.

"Aspects of people change, but not their entire personality. So, what about you? And you can't say stop smoking or the whole less-alcohol thing, either, because you've already done that. Shows you how much being an overachiever really pays off."

I furrowed my brows and looked at how pale his skin looked compared to mine. He wasn't paler than I was--not normally. Our bodies were against one another, warm and soft and there, and the people on the news were getting excited. Midnight was near, then.

"To stop focusing so much on what might've been," I told him quietly.

"Wow, that sounds deep. I didn't know I was dating a philosopher. So, what sort of woulda shoulda couldas keep you up at night?"

"Nothing you'd be interested in," I answered evasively, knowing that would only make him interested, and it may have come off a little flirtatious.

"Hmm, you're keeping it from me. That's interesting."

"Not particularly. It's just if I start ruminating now, don't you think I would be undercutting myself? After all, it _is_ my resolution not to think of such matters."

"And it was my new years resolution to corrupt you."

I raised my eyebrows at him briefly. "Oh? I thought you didn't do all that resolution crap."

He shrugged. "I changed my mind. And anyway, it's not quite the new year yet, Jimmy-boy. So spill."

"The usual stuff, I suppose. What would've happened if the Titanic hadn't crashed into the iceberg, or if Hitler had been killed before World War II."

"If you hadn't wasted fifteen years denying your unyielding passion for the crippled ass in the office next to yours . . ." he suggested lightly, thumb drawing a circle on my leg gently.

I raised my eyebrows at him and tapped my fingers against the back of his hand. "Fifteen years? I think perhaps you're over-exaggerating."

"Come on, you've wanted me since the moment you saw me."

"Oh, would that be when you were laughing hysterically as I was being arrested?"

"Pretty much. I, of course, had to deny your advances. I'm not a paedophile. So, how old were you? Twelve?"

I scoffed and rolled my eyes. "I was a fair bit older than twelve."

"Sixteen then," he decided with a nod.

I shook my head. "Yes, House. I graduated med school when I was sixteen."

"I knew my boyfriend was a genius."

"I can't see you settling for anything less."

House tilted his chin upwards haughtily. "I _never_ settle."

I smiled at him and his eyes looked clearer and bluer than they had been for a long while. I squeezed his hand gently, and his face . . . . flickered. An emotion passed by so quickly I couldn't place what it was, although I did recognize it. He eyed my mouth and I realized what it was--he was debating kissing me.

"How long have you . . ." he asked, voice trailing off, and he pursed his lips slightly. "You like me," he settled confidently, eyes locking on mine defiantly, as if he expected me to deny it. As if I wasn't letting him stroke my knee and I wasn't holding his hand and we weren't dating.

"Yes," I answered honestly, smiling at him so that he knew I wasn't just saying that to make him feel better.

"Well, for how long, then?"

I opened my mouth to tell him an answer, but realized I really didn't have one. It wasn't like I woke up one day and realized I loved him--it was more of a gradual thing. Even so, it wasn't like it would be the same in this reality anyway. "I don't know," I answered truthfully, wishing I could be more helpful.

He nodded slowly, brows furrowed and chin lowered slightly.

"I think it was more of a gradual thing," I explained further.

He removed his hand from my thigh and then wrapped his arm around my shoulder, pulling me closer to him. I could almost feel his stubble against my cheek, and the faint smell of cologne was stronger now that I was pressed against him. We both turned to the television, watching the people cheer and writhe around excitedly on-screen.

Having his arm around me was comfortable; warm, even. We hadn't had much to drink, but suddenly I felt a little bit more drunk. My head was swimming and my skin was buzzing, and yet I felt . . . calm.

"_Ten . . . Nine . . ."_ the people on the television chanted, the numbers flashing on screen as they spoke.

"Hey, Wilson," he whispered right next to my ear, and I felt his lips graze my lobe so gently I could have imagined it.

"_Eight . . ."_

I hummed to let him know I'd heard him, seeing as I didn't trust myself to talk at the moment. He chuckled, and I felt him smile.

"_Seven . . ."_

He didn't answer me, really, or finish what he meant to say (if he meant to say anything in the first place) and instead, brought my earlobe into his mouth. He dragged his teeth across the flesh there, and I gasped slightly.

"_Six . . ."_

He started kissing along my jaw, his beard scratching my skin. The sensations of his soft lips in contrast to the harsh scruffiness made my stomach flip. His tongue flicked out along my skin as he continued kissing my jaw line.

"_Five . . ."_

His teeth nipped and he sucked gently, tongue wet and flicking at the bites, as if soothing them even though he hadn't bit me hard. His mouth travelled closer and closer to mine.

"_Four . . ."_

He pressed his lips to the corner of my own.

"_Three . . ."_

He nudged my lips with his, barely brushing them and my heart fluttered for a second, then thudded harder against my rib cage.

"_Two . . . One . . ."_

I leaned forward, pushing my mouth against his, and he chuckled again. I heard them all shout "Happy New Year!" and his tongue flicked against my mouth.

It was tentative, but the cheers and fireworks exploding on the television pretty much summed up what I felt at the moment. It was slow and languorous, and when the chords to _Auld Lang Syne _filled the place it felt somehow appropriate. I tried not to moan--really, I did--but I failed.

He laughed into my mouth and pressed his brow against my forehead. "Eager, are we?" he said breathily, lips centimetres from mine.

"Oh, shut up," I ordered playfully, grabbed his jaw, and forced our mouths together.

It was his turn to moan, and I pushed my tongue against his, rubbing them together and arching when I felt him playing with the hair at the base of my head. I could feel everything--I could feel his tongue against mine; his fingers against the soft flesh on the back of my neck, at the top of my spine; his beard scratching my skin; his shirt pressed against mine. I couldn't tell who was moaning and who was whimpering, but I suppose it didn't really matter.

I could taste the beer on his tongue, and the smoother taste of his expensive bourbon mixing with it, and I was tugging at his scalp, pushing and pulling and deepening the kiss, and every now and then he pulled away for a split second to breathe or chuckle at my enthusiasm, but that didn't last very long because I _needed_ to kiss him.

Oddly, I had always assumed he'd be the dominant one--well, I had never really assumed we'd kiss in the first place, but whenever I thought about it, he was the one grasping at my shirt and forcing our mouths together repeatedly, nipping at my lips and pushing against me. Instead, I was the one hungrily devouring him.

Fifteen years of friendship--fifteen years of laughing at each other's stupid jokes and getting drunk together and arguing and eating together and . . .

And hundreds of other things that had never happened--not here, anyway. Fifteen years of _nothing._ Memories replayed in my head at warp speed, as vivid as the day it had happened, and he didn't know about them.

Once I realized that, my heart stopped hammering in my chest and my stomach stopped swooping. It was like a dream--it was like kissing a figment of House. This wasn't my House--I wasn't _his_ Wilson. We were total strangers to each other, with conflicting memories, and this kiss meant nothing.

I pulled away and opened my eyes, not really remembering when they had closed, and saw that his eyes were still closed, his forehead against mine, and breathing heavily; like he'd run a mile and was trying to catch his breath.

My hands slipped from his thinning hair and onto his shoulders, and this close to his face I could see all the slight differences so much that he didn't even look like the same person.

He opened his eyes and pulled back, eyes dilated and dazed looking. The alcohol we'd drank was back full-force, but I wasn't sure if it was the drink or the fact I could still taste him on my tongue that made me dizzy. "Huh," he hummed, then settled back against the couch cushions and put his arm around me, pulling me right up against his torso. We stared at the people celebrating on the television, dancing and kissing in the tickertape that fell all around them, and I sort of wondered if I would have beard burn tomorrow. "I don't know about you, but that was pretty hot," he said smugly.

I chuckled half-heartedly, then wondered how I could be elated and heartbroken at the same time.

* * *

A/N--In the words of the infamous Doctor Cockroach--O. M. G.

Finals are finally done. Can all the college students in the hiz-ouse holla at yo' boy? (Disclaimer--I am not a boy, nor do I have a Ph. D in dance. Or own Monsters vs Aliens. Seriously, I don't even own the DVD. If anybody's head exploded due to the usage of gangsta hard-co' G talk, I ain't claimin' shit, son. What up.)

Also, I'd like to thank my dad for betaing this chapter, even the snogging scene (although that made him awkward) and also, I'd like to thanks rsl_lover for reccing this fic as well as almost all my House fics.


	14. Chapter 14

Chapter Fourteen

_Amber was dead._

_Wilson sat at his desk, staring at the Paris shot glass he had on the polished wood, ignoring the beads of sweat that dripped down the glass and collected underneath. He ignored the faint taste of whiskey on his tongue, and sucked in a lungful of nicotine, his hand shaking, leaving jagged streaks of smoke twisting in the air in front of him._

_He should've gone home, but he couldn't--not yet. Not with all of her stuff surrounding him; not when she wasn't there with him. Not when he didn't know why she died, or why she'd been with House in the first place, or why he hadn't known . . . Why House couldn't figure out how to save her. He could figure everything else out, so why not how to save Amber?_

_His head pulsed and his eyes burned--not because he was crying, but because he had been. Having Amber ripped from him, without the chance to say goodbye, hurt. The fact that she had most likely grown tired of him and was sleeping with _House_ of all people hurt even worse. How could he go home after all that? _

_There were a few knocks on his door, and he sighed. He wasn't surprised--he figured Cuddy would come by eventually, probably to tell him to go home and rest. He'd put the Jack Daniels away a few minutes ago, but the shot glass was still on his desk, and he was sure he smelled of whiskey, and he couldn't air out the smell of nicotine before she walked in, even if he tried._

"_Come in," he said, and hoped she wouldn't care about the fact he'd just obviously been drinking and smoking in his office._

_The door opened and House stepped in, and Wilson groaned. House hadn't knocked on his door since . . . Well, he really couldn't remember a time he'd knocked, or shuffled in instead of bursting in like he owned the place._

"_What do you want?" he asked, breathing in smoke and closing his eyes against the pain that suddenly resurfaced. He was in pain already, but now it was worse with House there._

_House tapped his cane against the floor. "I . . . should've . . ." Wilson opened his eyes and looked at House, standing there looking just as lost as he felt. He let out a harsh sigh, then looked at the ceiling, as if that could somewhere help him with whatever it was he was trying to say. "I'm sorry," he grumbled, and it sounded like he meant it, even if it also sounded like it was being dragged from him._

_Wilson didn't know whether he wanted to accept the apology, or leap over his desk and strangle him. Instead, he just sat there and took another drag from his cigarette. Tears streamed down his face again and he choked on the smoke or the emotion--he didn't know which._

_House walked slowly over to the desk and sat in front of him. They stared at each other for a minute, and Wilson pretended that he didn't notice House's eyes were watery and red. He was looking at the cigarette he held between his two fingers, and he suddenly felt nauseous._

_He handed over the half-smoked cigarette and House took it, putting it in his mouth._

"_Why were you two together?" Wilson finally asked, voice cracking._

_House shook his head and offered Wilson the cigarette. He just shook his head, so House stuck it back in his mouth for a second, breathing out the smoke so it obscured his face. "I don't know."_

"_You don't know," Wilson repeated dully, and felt anger flare up in his chest._

"_I don't remember."_

"_Well isn't that convenient," Wilson spat._

"_I'm trying to be--"_

"_What? Comforting? You killed my girlfriend."_

"_I didn't kill--"_

"_You can save _anyone_ House! You--you--you diagnose the plague and--and get these _ridiculous_ ideas from nowhere, but you can't do it for--"_

"_You think I didn't try?" House shouted suddenly, and Wilson jumped at the sharpness of his tone. "I would've done anything to save her, you idiot!"_

"_Why? Because you loved her? Well, whether you did or not, it doesn't matter, because _I did!"_ he yelled, pointing at his chest--at the heart that seemed to be breaking._

"_Oh, that's right! I hate you so much I purposely killed her just to piss you off!"_

"_Why was she on the bus with you, House?! What were you two doing?!" he demanded again._

"_I don't know! I don't remember! But hell, if we were meeting up to fuck you can't say you didn't have it coming!" he retorted, violently crushing out the burning cherry in the ashtray Wilson also took to hiding in his drawer and brought out only to ash in when he smoked._

"_I never cheated on Amber!"_

"_Oh, please. How long do you think that would've lasted? How long until you two would've had an argument and you rushed off to the bar to get a drink? How long until you would've popped the question and got bored with sleeping with the same damn woman every night and took one of your oncology hussies out to lunch?"_

_Wilson clenched his hands into fists, as if the very motion could choke House to death. "You--you little--" he sputtered, unable to articulate what he felt. Unable to articulate how much he wanted House to burn. "Can't you just--for once in your life, House, can't you--my girlfriend just died! _Because of you!_ Why won't you just leave me alone _for once?"

"_I didn't come here to argue. I tried everything I could, but I just--I just don't know, Wilson! Don't you think that if I could've saved her, I would've?"_

"_That's all it is to you, House! You don't care about Amber! All you care about is figuring out what she had!"_

"_What, and like you gave two shits?" House snapped, then pushed out of the chair and scowled at him. "I cared about her more than you did. You only dated her 'cause she was a proxy."_

"_You're not allowed near her autopsy report," Wilson spat. "And get the hell out of my office."_

"_Gladly," House replied, then slammed his office door shut so hard the shot glass rattled on the top of his desk._

* * *

The insistent beeping in my ear woke me, and I slowly opened my eyes, habitually turning off the alarm on my watch. I stared at the unfamiliar ceiling above, not recognizing the feel of the comforters or the mattress underneath me. I looked over to see House sleeping beside me, on his back but head tilted so that he faced me. I felt his hot breath scattering across my face, and realized that I was sleeping in House's bed.

I hadn't gone to his bed last night--or at least, I didn't remember. I hadn't had enough beer or scotch to have drunken sex and forget, so that couldn't have been it, and I distinctly remembered falling asleep on his couch around two, when he'd said he needed to get to bed.

Then, I remembered. I remembered House shaking me awake around three and practically dragging me to his bed. I'd been so tired the memories passed by like blurry dream, and as soon as I'd plopped onto his bed I'd gone back to sleep, uncaring that House was getting in on the other side, inches from me.

I turned over on my side and stared at his face, smiling at the thought of him waking me up and pulling me to his bed. I remembered what it was like to kiss him, and I was sure I was blushing at the memory of me moaning into his mouth.

Frowning, I thought of how I wasn't even the Wilson he had liked, or known, and that he wasn't who I'd fallen in love with either. Well, all right, so he was--the same face, the same personality, but not the same memories . . . Eventually, something would happen and he'd ask me about something I should've known, and I wouldn't be able to answer. One day I'd want to reminisce about something that had never happened, and what then?

Sighing, I swung my legs off the mattress and held my face in my hands, yawning as I rubbed my eyes. I sat there for a minute, trying to push away the rest of my drowsiness, and then I stood up, stretching my arms and popping my back. I looked back down at House--at the way the comforter was pushed down to his waist, his thin white undershirt raised a little to reveal some skin, and at his tilted head and partially opened mouth.

In the dark, he looked like my House. The deeper wrinkles, the paler skin, the bags under his eyes . . . they didn't exist; not without light. He didn't weigh less, and his clothes didn't hang off of him where they shouldn't have. I reached forward to touch his face, almost like I had to make sure he really had pulled me into his bed in the middle of the night, but then he shifted and made a noise, so I pulled my hand back.

I left the room and closed the door quietly behind me, not wanting to wake him up.

* * *

I hadn't packed my hair dryer, simply because I had thought we were going to drink more and that we'd have hangovers when we woke up. Loud noises were never exactly the best thing for a morning after alcohol binging. I'd taken the quickest shower I could (not only because I didn't want to wake him, but because it was unnerving, washing a body that wasn't quite mine, and having to look at the scars on my inner thigh and feel the ones on my chest that weren't quite visible.)

I brushed my teeth, trying not to notice the differences on my face here and my face back home. A whole new year in a whole new life . . . I wasn't sure if I liked it or not. I know I wanted to go home, but it wasn't like I didn't have anything to look forward to here, either. What would happen if I left? Would this Wilson go and off himself? Would he . . . hurt House by leaving him, or something else like that? As much as this House needed me, I was sure my House did too. Oh God, what if this Wilson was in my body and he killed me? What if my House had tried to talk with him and was rebuked?

I shook my head--I couldn't think of those things; it wasn't like I could do anything to fix them.

I left the bathroom to see House sitting on the couch, a plate of macadamia nut pancakes in his lap while he shoved forkfuls in his mouth. I'd made them before I took a shower, and put some in the fridge for when he woke up. I found myself wondering what it would taste like on his tongue if I were to kiss him, then cleared my throat. Those sort of thoughts would make me late for work.

"Did the shower wake you?" I asked, running my hand through my damp hair. Towel- and air-drying really didn't do it for me.

"Nah, your alarm did. That thing's noisy as hell," he managed around a mouthful of food, then glanced over at me briefly, but stared at the muted television a second later.

For the first time, I wondered if he regretted last night. We'd only made out and leaned against each other (for some reason, saying that House and I cuddled didn't make much sense) and slept in the same bed, but . . . Well, if House was regretting doing that, or was too afraid to continue . . .

I rubbed the back of my neck and knew I was shifting my weight back and forth nervously. "Uh, did you want a ride to work? I could wait a few more minutes for you to get ready."

"Just gonna finish these up and go back to bed," he said, pointing at the syrup-covered pancakes with his fork.

He wasn't acting any differently than he normally did, but sometimes it was difficult to tell with him. I went over to the closet and pulled my coat out, watching him out of the corner of my eye--checking to see if he seemed upset or uncomfortable or, in any way, like he regretted kissing me last night.

When I put my coat on, House put his plate on the coffee table with a clink and stood up, reaching my suitcase before I did. We met at the door, and he put the suitcase in my hand, staring at me expectantly. "Wouldn't want to forget this," he said, our fingers brushing as I took it from him.

Our chests were inches from each other, and his eyes were locked onto mine. Should I kiss him goodbye, or was that too domestic for his tastes? House wasn't exactly the touchy-feely type of person.

Before I could really make a decision, he took a step back and clapped me on the shoulder. "See you at work," he said in parting, then turned around and headed back towards the couch.

* * *

Clinic duty was the same as it always was on New Year's Day. Most of the people had hangovers, although some of them had frostbite and broken bones and bruises because of family fights. Someone had third degree burns on his hands because he'd screwed up lighting a firework he'd meant to shoot off, but was too drunk to do it properly. All in all, nothing new.

I kept randomly remembering kissing House on his couch, and I'd start grinning like an idiot for no reason. The nurse handing over the folders asked me if I'd had a good night, and I said that I had, and she had a knowing little smile that was somewhat unnerving but attractive at the same time. Just remembering what it felt to have his mouth pressed to mine, or his tongue rubbing its way past my lips, made my heart flutter nervously, like a butterfly trapped in a cage trying to get out.

It was a little past eleven and I knew that if House wasn't here already he'd be here soon, so I decided to go up to my office and wait. If he didn't burst into my office demanding lunch, around noon I'd stick my head in his office and offer to take him. I wondered if it would be considered a date, or if eating lunch at work even counted.

"Wilson," Cuddy greeted as she walked up to me, one thin eyebrow raised knowingly and the smile on her face matched the one the nurse gave me earlier. "Have a nice New Year's Eve with House?" she asked. She didn't attempt to make it sound innocent or casual.

I cleared my throat and rubbed the back of my neck. My cheeks burned slightly. "Yes," I answered, and tried to stop myself from grinning. I probably ended up doing that thin-lipped smile House always pointed out to me as the one I made when I was pretending I didn't find him amusing.

"I thought so. He didn't put up much of a fight when I gave him a case."

"Oh, so he _is_ here?"

"He showed up about an hour ago." She followed me as I made my way over to the elevator, the smile curving the sides of her mouth still. "So . . ." she began, sounding more than a little amused.

"So," I agreed, raising an eyebrow at her.

We stopped in front of the elevator, and she smiled even wider. "It's official then?"

"What, House and me?" She nodded and I shuffled on the spot a bit, pressing the call button. "I suppose it is. Official, I mean. We're dating, if that's what you're asking."

"That's what he said," she stated. Well, if he told her we were dating, then apparently he didn't regret kissing me. Thank God. "He really . . . cares about you, Wilson."

"I know."

"Don't hurt him," she warned just as the door opened, then turned on her heel and clicked away.

* * *

It was ten 'til noon when I heard the tap, tap, tap of pebbles hitting my balcony door. I glanced up to see House on the other side of the dividing wall, pebbles in one hand and the other twisted back, as if getting ready for another toss.

Our eyes met and he let the rest of the pebbles drop.

I got out of my chair and put on my coat, keeping my eyes locked to his as I did. When I opened the door the cold air hit me like a blast, but it wasn't unpleasant. In fact, my office felt a bit uncomfortably warm compared to the slight chill.

"Hey," I greeted, standing by the half-wall that divided us.

"You're avoiding me," he accused, chin lifted stubbornly.

I furrowed my brows. "What? No, I'm not. I was just doing clinic duty."

"Until eleven-thirty?"

"Actually, I finished at eleven. I've been doing paperwork since then."

He stared at me, blue eyes trailing over my face cautiously, as if checking for the slightest twitch or sign that I was lying. I wasn't, and that must've showed, because he nodded and then looked out at the grey sky. "Okay," he relented.

I frowned at him, then leaned against the partition that separated us from the drop that would kill anybody who leapt over it. "Why would you think I was avoiding you?" I asked. He didn't answer--he just kept staring out at the snowy ground, but I could tell by the slight frown and the fact his eyes were narrowed that it still bothered him. "Is it because of last night?" I pressed tentatively.

He barely nodded. I could've pretended he didn't, if I wanted.

Of course he'd worry about me regretting it, just as I had thought he might. I worried because, well, fifteen years of spending most of my time with him and it hadn't ever happened, and he probably worried because for the last fifteen years, I'd hated him. It made sense. What didn't make sense was that in my reality, House hadn't ever shown any interest . . . Well, maybe some, but not like this. Not enough to hold my hand or ask me out or kiss me.

"House?" He hummed to let me know he'd heard me. "Why did you kiss me?"

"Oh, God," he groaned, then rubbed his palm over his face. "I knew it. I knew you'd freak out. You son of a bitch."

"House, look, I'm not--"

"Don't pull this whole 'I'm not gay' thing, idiot. I know you've slept with men before. I know what broke up your first marriage; do _not_ do this."

"What?!" I demanded, quite a bit louder than I meant, and I glanced around as if someone could've heard me although we were alone. "She _told_ you?"

"She might as well have," he grumbled, scowling at me. "She was playing the pronoun game. 'Oh, the classmate this, and oh, the person he cheated on me with that, and blah, blah, blah, our friend that he slept with yadda, yadda' and all that crap. She never said 'she.' She might as well have told me you bent over the table and took it like a man."

I held my face in my hands and groaned. I could just hear him mocking me about it--about the fact the first time I'd cheated, it hadn't even been with a woman. I didn't even want to know what he'd say if he knew I'd experimented a little in high school--although, I suppose, it wasn't so much 'experimenting' as 'dating casually.' "Look, it's not what--I was drunk, and I--I was having problems and we were--look, House, it's not--"

"What, you're not gay? Those three beers got you hammered last night? You only kissed me 'cause you were drunk? Spare it."

I pulled away and shook my hands a bit. "No, no, I'm not--I'm not _not_ gay, I just--I didn't want you to know because that was in the past, and I knew you'd make fun of me--and kissing you wasn't a mistake, I was just--look, nobody knows about--about what happened that night--well, other than the obvious, apparently--"

"Not _not_ gay? Do you even listen to yourself?"

"Well, I'm not gay--I do like women--I just happen to like men as well--well, not a lot of men, just every now and--House, no. Look, you've totally missed my point. I--I was--I wasn't _saying_ I regretted kissing you, I just . . . _wanted _to know why you did."

House raised an eyebrow at me, and judging by the half-smile on his face, he was clearly amused. "You're cute when you're flustered. Cute in a non-emotional, non-touchy-feely, non-romcom way."

I rubbed my face, knowing my cheeks were probably red as hell. "This is not how I imagined you figuring out I'd been with men before," I muttered.

"You're not exactly great at hiding your gayness."

"I'm not gay," I insisted.

"Bi, then."

"Yeah, like Thirteen--I know," I muttered, pinching the bridge of my nose. Saying it out loud was embarrassing--although I had always known it, saying it out loud seemed to sign it in blood on a contract--I couldn't take it back, although I suppose the fact I'd fallen in love with my male best friend only made it obvious. Well, and the fact I'd made out with him and slept in his bed the night before--although I suppose the sleeping in the bed part meant he was bi, seeing as he was the one who dragged me there in the middle of the night.

"Thirteen? What are you--oh, Thirteen was bi?" He furrowed his brows in thought, then shrugged. "Huh, well, that makes sense."

I stared at him, realizing a moment too late that I shouldn't have mentioned the girl he hadn't hired.

He pointed between us, eyes flicking back and forth. "But uh . . . You and I, we're . . ." he trailed off, eyes wide and pleading.

"Yeah. We're . . . still together. I just wanted to know why you kissed me. You could've gone fifteen years without making a move, so . . . What made you do it?"

He shrugged. "It's not like I had anything to lose."

And there it was--he had nothing to lose. That made sense, I guess. Fifteen years of friendship? Nonexistent. All he had was a few days of the two of us getting along, and fifteen years of hatred before that. What would he be afraid of losing? The worst case scenario would be me turning him down, like I had apparently done before, and going back to the way we were before I bought him lunch. What would he be afraid of?

House had a problem letting go of people, almost as bad as I did. In fact, probably worse. He didn't mind never connecting with people--it was when he finally managed to start liking someone that it bothered him. Losing people was the worst thing he could experience--I'd been there after Stacy, and that had been hell. I hadn't been there when I decided not to be friends with him, but I'd heard through his team what it had been like.

"House, I . . . I know this might surprise you, but . . . I've wanted this for awhile."

He chuckled, then turned back to the sky. "You're not exactly good at hiding it. Denying, maybe. Hiding? No."

I stared at the sky with him, and a moment later, I felt his hand slip into mine casually. The fact that it was casual--not awkward; not tentative--made me smile, and I squeezed affectionately. "You're the girl in this relationship, by the way," he stated, his thumb grazing my knuckles.

"I'm sorry?"

"Well, there's always the girly one. I'm obviously the man."

"Yes, because you're so burly and masculine."

"I'm not the one who blow dries my hair and cooks macadamia pancakes, so . . ."

"Just because I care about my appearance doesn't mean I'm girly. Being able to cook is inconsequential. In fact, most chefs happen to be male."

He scoffed. "Gay males, maybe."

I rolled my eyes then gazed at his profile. The small smile on his face was enough to make me feel warm and content with how things were, and he must've sensed my eyes on him because he turned his head and gazed back.

I thought back to the expectant look he gave me at his door before I left for work, and realized he was staring at me in the same way.

I kissed him chastely, his lips cold and chapped, bits of dry skin scratching against my mouth and sending shivers down my spine. I pulled away, but he leaned forward and pressed his mouth to mine again, more insistently than I'd kissed him.

The slow sweep of his tongue against mine made my heart skip so hard it was almost painful. I could taste toothpaste and syrup in his mouth, and his hands held my jaw, fingers cold. It was a bit uncomfortable, but the fact his mouth was warm made up for it.

We both pulled away, and I pressed my lips against his quickly one more time. His blue eyes slid away from my face and at the differential diagnosis room. His smile faltered briefly and I glanced in the same direction he was looking.

Taub, Foreman, and Kutner were all standing in the room, staring at us with various looks of confusion or shock etched on their faces. Apparently, they'd seen us kissing.

"Guess they figured out I wasn't joking when I said we were dating, huh?" he said smugly.

I looked back at him, then shrugged. "Guess so."

He smirked, then grabbed my tie and jerked my head forward so that our lips smashed together. It took a second for me to turn my head in a way so that the kiss felt less awkward. After that brief moment he pulled away from me, still smirking.

"You're evil," I stated plainly.

"You know you love it."

* * *

A/N--Eek, I'm sorry I haven't updated, but I'm having a hard time getting an internet connection. There are only three chapters left, and so I hope I can find the time to get those up. Normally I try to upload between 5am and 3pm, but I don't have any guarantee as to how long I'll be on so I'm uploading now. As penance for not uploading, I wrote another story for you guys. Also, as a side note, I was totally drunk when I wrote the balcony scene, but I kept it because I thought it fit, and my dad did too. I'm telling you all this so that if you find a typo or a random formatting error, blame the Russians for inventing vodka.


	15. Chapter 15

Chapter Fifteen

House had a giant steak covered in Worcestershire sauce with fries and a chocolate cake on the side. A chocolate cake covered in hot fudge which really did look like it was worth the extra money I'd splurged. Of course, I'd had to buy myself one as well when he pointed out that it just wasn't a date if desert wasn't included; otherwise, it was just lunch and dammit, he wanted to taste the chocolate on my tongue when we made out later.

The lunch lady would probably never look at us the same way again after hearing that particular conversation. It was almost worth the embarrassment just to see her cough on air and blush.

"Mind if I ask you something?" I asked when we were settled comfortably in the booth furthest away from everyone else.

"It's a bit soon for a proposal," he said casually.

"Should I return the ring, then?"

"We could pawn it and split the take," he offered with a shrug. "So, what is it you wanted to ask, then?"

I shifted in my seat, aware that what I was about to change the mood entirely, but I'd been wondering it for awhile and I just had to know. "Why'd you hire Amber? Why not Thirteen?"

He let out a long sigh. "Thirteen was . . . pretty." I raised my eyebrows at him and rolled his eyes. "Amber was hot, too, but she was a bitch. It more than made up for her attractiveness. And . . . well, I'd already killed a patient because I couldn't look past how hot someone was, and I just . . . didn't want to do it again. The one time it was actually lupus, too," he groused.

The mood was different, just as I had expected, and a part of me regretted bringing the subject up--but I just had to know. He stared at his plate and stabbed at his cake with his fork awkwardly. Then he looked up, eyes bright and smile mischievous. "Wanna make out in the janitor's closet after lunch?"

I snorted back my laughter. "How about we forgo the closet and make out in my office instead?" I suggested.

"Get rid of that tie and it's a deal."

I looked down at it. "What's wrong with my tie?"

"What _isn't?"_

* * *

The sound of the cushions squeaking underneath us as we sat was the only sound I was really aware of at the moment--well, that, and our heavy breathing and small moans. My tie was somewhere on the floor (I really couldn't remember where he'd taken it off) and the top few buttons of my shirt were undone--something House was taking advantage of at the moment, biting down on my collarbone and then sucking where his teeth had been.

I hadn't made out like this since early college.

My shirt was untucked and his hands, although at first cold, were now warm as he scratched down my sides and ran his palms over my chest.

Wow. Why hadn't anyone told me he could kiss like this? I would've thrust my tongue in his mouth ages ago if I'd known.

My back was on the cushions suddenly, and he was on top of me, nipping my jaw and chin and lip alternately and quickly, as if he couldn't decide where he wanted to stay, so I made the decision for him by grabbing his head and forcing his mouth to mine. He either moaned or chuckled--maybe both--and sucked on my tongue then scratched down my sides again--it was almost painful, but not quite, and I arched my back.

His hands slid out of my shirt and my torso was suddenly cold, then he pinned my wrists across one another like X's against the arm of my office couch, then bit down on the side of my neck--hard. It should've hurt, but it really, really didn't. I made a pretty embarrassing noise that sounded similar to "husleflp" that I would deny making and bucked.

"Knock me off this couch and I'll kick your ass," he breathed before biting my lip, then plundered my mouth again.

I kept arching up to meet him and he kept pushing me down with his body, the friction of our clothes and bodies grinding making it impossibly hot and the skin of my back (my shirt was pushed up pretty high) kept brushing against the couch, and I doubted I'd ever be able to look at these cushions again without blushing.

The knocking on my door sounded more like cannon blasts and House jumped. "Doctor Wilson?" Kutner called through the wood.

"Uh--I'll be right there; just need to--uh--file something," I invented wildly, knowing how fake it sounded.

I gently pushed House away (he hadn't been pinning my wrists down too roughly) and stood up, trying to tuck in my shirt and button it at the same time.

"You're not very good at that," House said, standing up off the couch just as I finished my last button. He smoothed my hair quickly, then gestured at the door. "Best not keep him waiting, Romeo."

"Shut up," I grumbled, smiling nervously.

I hurried over to the door, running a hand through my hair one more time (I still probably looked ruffled) and unlocked the door, opening it.

Kutner was standing there, eyebrows knitted together. "Is House here?" he asked, looking me over quickly before grinning. "Filing, huh?"

"Uh yeah, he's . . . here." I cleared my throat and opened the door fully. House was standing, looking completely casual, as if Kutner interrupted make out sessions all the time.

Kutner walked over to him. "We managed to get the blood samples, but then she started freaking out."

House bent down and grabbed my tie from off of the floor. "Freaking out? Is that a medical term?" He then took a large step closer so that he was standing right in front of me.

"She started smacking her face and screaming at us to get them off me."

"Off of you?" he asked, furrowing his brows as he draped the tie over my shoulders.

"No, her."

House sighed, looping the silk expertly, as if he put ties on me every day. I got the feeling that this gesture was half-affectionate, and half-screwing with Kutner. "Well, when you're mimicking patients, you have to do it in a falsetto voice, _duh._ So, she's hallucinating spiders, then?"

"Bees, actually. She said she could hear them coming before she saw them. Then she started swelling up and itching. Looked like anaphylactic shock."

"That's interesting." He finished tying my tie for me, then smoothed his fingers down it. Kutner was staring at us, probably confused at House's gesture of affection (not that I blame him.) When House turned around and looked at him, though, he quickly looked away. "All right. Shoulda figured something else would go wrong. It always does."

"So . . . You coming or . . . are you gonna stay with Wilson for, uh, _filing?"_ The tone he spoke in and the slight quirk of his eyebrows only made it completely obvious he didn't actually believe that was what we were doing.

I rubbed the back of my neck and stared at the ground again.

"We can file later," House answered, then the two of them left my office.

* * *

"Psychosomatic anaphylaxis," House revealed haughtily when the doors shut, leaving us alone in the elevator.

"Really?"

"Nope. I was just lying to sound impressive." I rolled my eyes. "Actually, yeah. Apparently, she was attacked by a horde of bees when she was eight. Her boyfriend started using the same aftershave her dad used when it happened. She got a fever because of the medicine we gave her, which gave her hallucinations, which made Foreman think it was neurological so we wasted our time on a MRI . . . You know. The usual." He shrugged as if it wasn't a big deal--although, I suppose it wasn't, considering how often this sort of thing happened to him.

"Sounds like an interesting day."

"And what did you do? Any sexual exploits you might wanna get off your chest? Like, say . . . making out like a wanton, slutty teenager on a couch with a creepy old pervert?"

"One of the better highlights of my day. I also called my parents."

"Huh. How'd that go?"

"All right." That was a bit of an oversimplification, but it wasn't necessarily untrue. It had been awkward at first, but after awhile it slid into something more comfortable. My mother had to have some kind of award for being great at guilt trips--hell, I hadn't even been the one to avoid her for ten years and she still managed to make me feel like crap.

"Did you tell her about us?"

"Every sordid detail."

He knocked my hand with his. "I'm serious."

I realized I'd never really been the one to initiate handholding, and so I slid my hand into his and squeezed. "All right, so I gave her a blurry edited version--PG, at best. But yes, I told her I had a . . . um, boyfriend." I furrowed my eyebrows at saying what he was out loud, although I have no idea why it sounded odd considering I'd had his tongue in my mouth a few hours ago.

"Don't worry. It sounds weird for me, too."

The elevator halted suddenly and the doors dinged open. I wondered if I should let go of his hand, but a moment later he tugged me out and led me, hands clasped naturally and casually.

If anybody stared, I didn't notice. Then again, my mind wasn't exactly on anyone but him.

* * *

Slowly coming to a soft halt at the stop light, I felt the silence of the car somehow shift. I don't know how I knew he was going to talk about something, well, less than cheery, but I did. Maybe I'd heard the soft intake of breath, or maybe I'd seen him fidget in that way he only fidgeted right before talking about something he didn't want, but needed, to get off his chest, but I knew he was going to say something.

"It wasn't the first time," he muttered quietly, and I glanced at him. He was staring at the floor mat.

"What wasn't?"

"When I OD'd." He drummed his fingers against his legs, and I wondered if he regretted putting his cane in the backseat. His cane was like an extension of his body--he traced his mouth with it when he was in thought, banged it against walls, tapped it against floors . . . Sometimes it was easier to tell what he was feeling by looking at his cane than any other way.

I wanted to say I was sorry, but it didn't seem to fit the situation. There really wasn't much I could say to that, anyway. I had figured he'd OD'd before, but . . . Well, hearing it was a different story.

"I never mean to, really. It just . . . happens. I just want to feel numb, Wilson. You can't . . . you can't imagine what this feels like on my _best_ days. Take that and . . . and add in all the normal life crap, well . . ."

I nodded noncommittally, and then looked at the light--still red. Sometimes this light was a real bastard. It was uncomfortable, listening to this, but I'd learned a long while ago that House didn't really bare himself to the world often, and when he did, it was best to just let him talk. If I made a sarcastic comment and interrupted what he had to say, it would be the last time he brought it up, and I'd feel guilty for not being there when he needed me--after all, it wasn't often he got emotional.

"There's this moment--right after you realize you took too much--where everything's . . . clear. Like sitting in a dream and figuring out that's what it is--a dream. And you think; 'this is it. I'm done for.' Everything starts slipping away, like waking up, only . . . not. And . . . when that happens, I . . ."

The light switched to green and I pressed on the gas, rolling into the intersection and speeding up as I continued down the street, the sound of my windshield wipers filling the silence, and I swallowed the lump in my throat.

"I should panic, but I don't. I . . . a part of me wants not to wake up. Just rests in the fact that I could die." His voice was quiet--like maybe he wasn't talking to himself, and I was just eavesdropping. "Maybe I OD on purpose, trying to get there. I don't know. And I just think; 'well, I guess it doesn't matter, because nobody will care that I'm gone.'"

"I'd care, House. I love--uh, being around you." I winced at the slip, and I would have to be stupid to think he hadn't caught onto it.

The silence was deafening. Everything closed in, and I felt like a moron.

"The document you deleted--the one that could've been interpreted as suicidal . . . That's because it was, wasn't it?"

I turned on the blinker, ignoring the click-ting, click-ting as it invaded the car. What was I supposed to say to that, other than agreement? Obviously he already knew. I didn't say anything--I just nodded.

"But you deleted it," he pressed on.

I nodded again, finishing up the turn.

"Good," he said, and I smiled.

* * *

No beer, no scotch, no alcohol--just the two of us sitting together, watching a monster truck rally he'd TiVo'd ages ago and had never actually gotten around to watching. His arm was draped over the back of the couch, idly playing with the hair at the base of my head. I wondered if it was a conscious action, or if he had no idea he was actually doing it. Either way, it was nice, and I kept my hand on his knee. Nothing sexual, just touching each other as if reassuring ourselves we were still dating.

"I didn't know you liked monster trucks," he said, fingers barely touching the skin on the back of my neck.

"What? Of course I do. I like carnage as much as the next marginally sane man."

"Mm. Me too. We should go sometime."

As hard as I tried to forget that this wasn't my House, it somehow managed to come up eventually. We'd gone to monster truck rallies. We'd seen insanely huge trucks crush tiny, pathetic cars into nothing, the sounds of cheering and screeching so loud we couldn't even hear the person next to us. I knew what it was like to see bits of cotton candy fluff hanging off the side of his lips until he licked it back into his mouth, or to watch him wandering around and pointing excitedly at every thing, like a hyperactive kid in a candy store.

"Yeah, we should," I agreed dully, furrowing my brows at the television.

"What's up with you?"

Damn. I knew my tone had sounded poignant. "Oh, nothing. I'm just tired." It wasn't necessarily a lie--I was getting a bit drowsy.

"It's barely ten."

"Yeah, I know. Long day." I pulled my hand off his knee to cover my mouth as I yawned.

He switched off the television. "Okay, time for bed," he said, putting his hand on my thigh as he stood. He grabbed his cane from its place, leaning against the arm of the couch. Our eyes met and he tilted his head to the side, then he jerked his chin upward. "Come on, get up," he ordered.

"Hmm?"

"One of the perks of dating Greg House is getting to sleep on an actual bed. Come on, I'm not gonna make you sleep on that lumpy piece of shit." He gestured towards his bedroom with his head.

Smiling, I stood off the couch and followed him to his room. We were already dressed for bed, so he was already in his pyjama bottoms and thin undershirt. I stood in the doorway, looking around his room, feeling an odd mixture of . . . I don't know, unease? Accomplishment? All I know was that it made me grin, but I was still a bit nervous.

He was half-sitting on the mattress, raising his eyebrows at me. "You're not a horse, Wilson. You can't sleep standing up." He patted the spot next to him expectantly, and I finally stepped fully into his bedroom.

I slid into the bed beside him, slipping under the covers and feeling the weight of him next to me. It was different, sleeping beside him (well, I'd done it the night before, but I'd been dragged there in my sleep, so . . .) but not as awkward as I had expected. I didn't know if it was because it was a different House, or if because I'd known him for so long, or a mixture of both, but it wasn't strange at all.

"Bump my leg and you're dead," he warned.

"House, I'm sleeping on your left side. How would I even get _near_ it?"

"Well, if you decide to randomly get on top of me in the middle of the night, accidents could happen."

I tilted my head so I could see him grinning, then I turned so that I was lying on my shoulder, facing him. He was still on his back, but he was looking at me. "What would I be doing on top of you?" I asked conversationally (and admittedly, flirtatiously as well.)

"Use your imagination," he replied gruffly.

"Oh, trust me, I have. Used it quite a lot, actually."

"Hmm. I'd like to get inside that head of yours and see." He brushed some bangs off of my forehead, one corner of his mouth quirked upward.

"Play your cards right, and you could be getting into more than just my head."

"That sounds promising. Let's try that out sometime. When we're not dead tired and out of condoms."

His eyes swept over my face quickly, then he shifted onto his shoulder. The fact we were even talking about sex struck up a familiar stirring sensation in my lower abdomen. Sex with House? I'd be lying if I said I'd never thought about it, but thinking it might actually happen? That was different. Everything here was so new, and fascinating, even if it was partially disheartening because . . . Well, it was entirely new. New world, new House, new me . . . But it opened a whole lot of doors for when I got back home . . . Well, _if_ I did, anyway.

But then what would happen here?

What was happening there?

"I knew it, you know. Knew you wanted me. Ages ago," he said, and he scooted closer to me.

"Really? Wh-what, uh . . . gave it away?"

"I don't know. The way you looked at me or something. It was just one of those things I knew and I really don't know why. So why now? It can't just be because you found Amber's note."

I really had no idea what to say to that, but I could tell that he was expecting an answer. It wasn't something I could ignore, or joke my way out of. I knew that look on his face. Even if I said something sarcastic, he'd drag something out of me eventually. Which, all right, normally I wouldn't have a problem with that (or, well, I would) but this time, there really wasn't a real answer. So I suppose I had to buy time.

"I come from an alternate reality where you bailed me out of jail and we've been best friends since then," I told him, completely straight-faced (which was incredibly easy, seeing as it was true.)

He blinked at me. No way. There was no way he believed that, even if I wasn't lying. Unless the whole thing really had been some sort of elaborate prank . . .

"You wanna know something?" he asked, blinking again.

"Hmm?"

"You're made of total crap."

"Damn, I thought I had you."

He furrowed his eyebrows, then gently touched my face, dragging the tips of his fingers across my cheek and jaw. "You think that would've happened? If I'd bailed you out? I mean, I thought about it, but . . ."

"Yeah," I answered.

"Guess that can be one of my woulda shoulda couldas." He shrugged, which looked odd since he was lying on his side. "So, as your best friend, did we get to make out and sleep in the same bed and all that good, hot, homoerotic stuff?"

"No. But . . . it was worth it."

"You wanna know what I think?"

"What?"

"That your torso would make a good pillow," he answered, then pushed me onto my back and placed his head on my sternum.

The weight of him on my chest felt almost right--like putting on a jacket that was the perfect cut, and knowing it was the one you were going to buy. I put my arm around him, like I was holding him in place, and beamed at the ceiling. I probably looked like an idiot, but I didn't care.

"Tell me about this alternate reality of yours," he demanded quietly.

"What about it?"

"Everything."

I closed my eyes and held him still, trying to think of where we could start. Something that could epitomize our relationship--something he would enjoy, but something that was different from here and could never have happened. Colourful, vivid images danced before my eyes--memories of all that we were, and all that he would never have felt.

I opened my eyes and glanced down at his head. His face was tilted upward so that he could look at me, and he reminded me of a child so much at the moment.

"Okay," I said, and began with the very first words he ever said to me.

* * *

_He reread the letter._

_Again._

_And again._

_It was stupid, it was pathetic, and it was definitely screwed up, but he proofread his suicide note. It didn't really matter if there was a misplaced comma or a misspelled word, but he couldn't help it. He wanted everyone to know it was nobody's fault but his own. He didn't want it to come off as harsh, or rude, or anything like that--just wanted to explain what he felt and why he felt it. Why he'd decided to take his own life._

_People would talk, people would come up with their own reasons, and they wouldn't be wrong. He was sure it didn't matter what he wrote--people made up their own conclusions, and didn't much care for the real reasons. It didn't matter, because they were probably right. Even if they were wrong, he'd be dead anyway._

_Ever since Amber died, it was like a never-ending struggle just to even get out of bed. The very thought of showering and combing his hair and looking at dying people ever damn day and seeing Amber in their eyes was the equivalent of putting a gun to his temple, anyway. He might as well be dead already._

_Everybody felt so sorry for him at first, but now they were just . . . bored, he supposed. They didn't seek him out, and he didn't seek them out. He didn't want to talk to them, and the feeling was probably reciprocated. Nobody liked listening to someone mope and bitch and whine, which was what he wanted to do. He never did, of course. If anybody asked how he was, he put on that smile he'd gotten so great at faking and told them he was fine, and how are you? You good too? That's great, and what about your patients? That's fantastic. Well, I gotta go, but it was great talking to you._

_As for House, well, things were different. He looked at the diagnostician, and sometimes it felt more like looking into a mirror. He was missing that spark--the edge that made him who he was, and Wilson would have had to be blind not to notice the weight change, or the fact he was strolling into work later and later each day. What Wilson hid from the world, House showed off--he didn't care if everybody knew he hated his life._

_If they stood next to each other in the lunch line, they avoided looking at one another. They snapped at each other every now and again, but nothing like before. Wilson found he could barely even stand being in the same hall as him, knowing that Amber had apparently wanted to be with House over him. He'd been a good boyfriend--he hadn't even cheated on her and he still wasn't good enough. And because of that, she'd been on the bus with her boss instead of at home with him, and had died because of it._

_Wilson didn't want to be the kind of man who wished death on another person, but he did. Constantly. He often found himself imagining how much better life would've been had House been on the bus alone. Before the accident, Wilson could say that he'd been . . . Well, intrigued by House. Maybe he hadn't been wrong when he'd said Amber was a proxy, but that didn't matter. Now he couldn't stand the very thought of him._

_Wilson placed the bottle of beer on the coffee table beside the others when he heard the knock on the door and swayed as he stood. He was drunk; he knew it. It didn't matter--he'd be dead in a week anyway. He could trash his liver all he wanted. Maybe if he was lucky, he'd drink himself to death. That wouldn't be too bad of a way to go._

_The walls around him shimmied and the floor tilted as he opened the door. The hooker on the other side smiled at him. She was pretty--she might have been new. She didn't seem to have that hard edge about her that all the others had. Then again, he was drunk, and they were paid for being whoever they needed to be._

_Her eyes were brown. Good. Ever since the accident, he couldn't stand the sight of blue irises. He didn't know if it had to do with Amber or House. That's all he needed. Male, female, it didn't matter, as long as they didn't remind him of his dead girlfriend or the ass in the office next to his._

"_Merry Christmas," she greeted brightly._

"_I'm Jewish," he told her, and her face fell._

_That was all the talking they needed, and the next second they were kissing. Some hookers didn't mind the kissing--it did cost extra, but he could afford it. He wanted it. He didn't know if it was because he craved the intimacy, or if it was because if he kissed her he could tell himself he wasn't sleeping with a prostitute, but once again, it didn't matter. _

_Being as she was a prostitute, he didn't have to please her, but he did. Maybe that was why she cradled his head when he started sobbing after she made him orgasm. Maybe that was why when he finally turned away from her, she went into the living room and he heard the tell-tale clinking and rustling of her cleaning. Maybe that was why when she finished she asked if he wanted her to stay the night._

_Wilson wanted to say yes, but he didn't. He told her he was fine, paid her at least an extra hundred dollars she hadn't asked for, and thanked her._

_The last thing he thought before he drifted into drunken sleep was what House would think when the news of his death travelled to his office. It didn't matter, because nothing did, but he wondered anyway._

* * *

A/N--Thanks to all those who reviewed _Quiet Desperation._ There are only two chapters left! What'll happen? Will Wilson go home? Will he stay? Is Elvis dead? And who is Cartman's mother?


	16. Chapter 16

Chapter Sixteen

The obnoxious shrieking sound jerked me out of my sleep suddenly, and I jumped. My lids were heavy and my head was fuzzy, and even though my eyes were at least partially open I couldn't see a damn thing. The trilling noise continued and I slammed my hand down on the alarm clock, and the sound stopped.

Only to start up again.

I glanced at the clock, saw the blaring 1:07 like a hellish glow damning me, and realized on the next ring that it was my phone. I blindly reached for it, finding it immediately, and answered it. "Hello?" I grumbled, closing my eyes and sinking back against the pillow.

"What took you so long? The phone rang like eight thousand times," House greeted.

I didn't realize until just then that he wasn't beside me. I'd told him about our friendship in my reality until I felt his breath go steady and rhythmic, and I'd eventually fallen asleep around midnight. I glanced at the clock again--1:08. An hour of sleep. "Where are you?" I asked, running my palm over my face, and getting the feeling that something was wrong with House's room suddenly.

"At my apartment."

"What?"

"My apartment," he repeated louder.

"Where am I, then?"

"Not on my lumpy couch. I don't know--maybe you're getting sucked off in the men's bathroom. I could care less. But you better get here soon 'cause I've got a growling stomach with your credit card's name all over it."

I sat up and looked around my darkened room, recognizing the pillow beside me. Amber's pillow. The one I'd gotten rid of, apparently. "I'm home," I realized aloud, the sleepiness starting to wane a little.

"That's great. Say, you think you can drag your lazy ass over to my place and pick me up? I'm starving."

"I'm sorry, what?"

"I know I'm a genius and it's hard to keep up sometimes, Jimmy-boy, but I'm speaking in layman's terms. It's time for our post-Christmas food fest."

"What day is it?"

"The twenty-sixth, idiot. Has been for an hour and nine minutes. So, are you coming or what?"

"The twenty-sixth?" I repeated, swinging my legs off of the mattress and standing up. "It's the twenty-sixth? Of December, '08?"

"Uh, duh? Are you stoned or something? Because if you are, you should totally bring your stash. We could skip work tomorrow and veg out with some chips and pizza."

I hurried over to the light switch and turned it on, bathing my room in light. Amber's side of the bed was untouched. "What? No, I'm not high, I just . . . I'm tired. I only got to bed about an hour ago."

"Well you better hurry up and get over here. You have to get up early for work tomorrow."

I grinned. Home. I was _home._ With _my_ House in _my_ reality. "Don't you mean _we_ have to get up early tomorrow?"

"Yeah right. I'm not getting up before eleven. Get your ass over here and feed me."

I chuckled, feeling completely elated to hear his voice on the phone. I thought back to what his mouth had tasted like, even though that hadn't happened with him, and laughed again. "Yeah, okay. I'll be there in a minute."

"Good. See ya then." Click.

* * *

I pulled up at the curb in front of his apartment and stared at the building. As stupid as it sounded, the whole place actually looked different. I knew that it really didn't and that it was all psychological, but knowing that the House inside was the one I knew made everything seem brighter.

I got out of my car and hurried up the walkway, feeling the cold wind against my cheeks and grinning at the thought that it was just after Christmas. I wasn't suicidal, I didn't avoid my family, and, all right, so I had to see a psychiatrist and take depression medication but I was happier here than I was there. Marginally happier. My House was still addicted to Vicodin, but not nearly as much. The other House had taken far more pills, had looked much sicker, and just hadn't seemed . . . right. Something always seemed just a little bit off about him, but now everything would be just fine.

It wasn't until I was standing in front of his door, the sounds of his piano reaching my ears through the door that I realized that here, we weren't dating. The transition in the other reality had seemed so . . . I don't know, natural for us, that it hadn't occurred to me that here we weren't dating. There, sitting close to him and getting into his personal space had been flirting and new, but here that was an everyday occurrence. Was I sacrificing dating him by being home?

I frowned--it seemed almost cruel, to be handed something just for it to be taken away. So why wasn't I upset?

I smiled. Fifteen years of friendship meant more to me than a week of awkward flirting and finally dating him. Coming home to this was a better prospect than what I had there. This was real--that was some sort of . . . I don't know, but it wasn't right. It was like looking at a copy of the Mona Lisa--even if it looked similar, maybe even almost exactly the same, something would be missing. That was us--I'd fallen asleep telling the other House about all the great things we'd experienced, and I'd woken up where I wanted to be, and he got to fall asleep on the man he thought I was.

Smiling, realizing that I wasn't sacrificing so much as earning everything back, I knocked on his door, loud enough to be heard over the piano.

"Use your key!" he shouted, and I grinned again. I had been expecting it (he usually made me use the key on our post-Christmas dinner) and hearing him say it made me chuckle happily.

I unlocked the door and pushed it open to see him sitting at the piano, playing something upbeat and happy but definitely not Christmassy since he didn't do that sort of "mushy, schmoopy spirit-of-the-holiday crap. Bah-humbug, and get me a beer."

He checked me over, pressing down on the pedal, looking so much healthier than he did in the other reality. I must've looked about as great as I felt, because he raised his eyebrows at me and said; "You get laid or something? You're practically glowing."

I shook my head. "No, nothing like that, just . . . in a good mood, I guess," I evaded, rubbing the back of my neck and knowing I was smiling at him. He shut the lid to his piano and got off of the bench, grabbing the cane he'd leaned against it and started walking over to me. He was already wearing some Nikes (they didn't match his pyjamas, but it didn't matter) and his coat. He was ready to go, and so was I, and everything was . . . normal; as it should be.

I wrapped my arms around him in a random hug, and he froze, arms dangling at his sides, and I knew it made him uncomfortable, but I really couldn't care. I had spent a week with someone else, who was him in essence, but not him at the same time, and just seeing him and knowing I was home . . . All right, so it was sappy. I didn't care. I closed my eyes and smelled him, and held him tightly against me.

"You don't smell drunk," he commented a minute later, still frozen and not reciprocating--but he wasn't pushing me away, either.

"I'm not."

"Okay," he said, then finally patted my back. He hesitated for a minute, hand still between my shoulder blades, then he pulled back at the same time he gently pushed me away. He looked at me, and I recognized the look in his eye--I'd seen it several times throughout the years, but it wasn't until I'd spent the week in some alternate reality that I realized what it was. The same look he gave me when he handed me my briefcase; the same look he'd given me before kissing me on the balcony. I'd only seen it directed towards one other person, and that had been Stacy.

Before I did something about it (namely, kiss him) he stepped away and gestured towards the door. "It's a post-Christmas food fest, not a post-Christmas sap fest. Come on, Wilson, get with the program," he muttered then pushed his way past me.

I followed him out the door, watching his limp. It was still there, but it wasn't as pronounced as it had been with the other him. When we both got into the car and I pulled out into the street, the light from the lamps streaming in on his face, I noticed that the bags were gone, and it didn't wash him free of all colour.

I smiled at him, then put my foot on the gas.

* * *

House reached across the table and took my roll, the dim lighting of the restaurant shining off the top, which was smothered with butter. I assumed it was still warm, since little wisps of steam curled around the soft middle, and a little bit of only partially melted butter slid across the domed top.

"It's not fair that you always get a roll with your meal and I only get mashed potatoes," he whined.

"You could always ask for the roll as your side instead, you know," I told him, never having been happier to see him take something off my plate than I was at that moment.

"But then I wouldn't have a roll _and_ mashed potatoes."

I'd grown accustomed to him taking my rolls a long time ago, so I'd splurged some extra money to buy two. I was sure he knew just why I bought extra food and took advantage of it. It was just another of one those things that had become a part of our friendship in the past fifteen years. Things I couldn't replicate--memories that couldn't be copied and replaced.

I must've been smiling again, because he was staring at me strangely. "What's wrong with you?" he asked, putting the roll down on his plate.

"Nothing," I answered.

"Why do you keep staring at me like that?"

I knew what he was referring to, but I decided to play ignorant anyway. "Like what?"

He rested his chin on his palms, batting his eyelids overdramatically and sighing dreamily. He had the dopiest smile ever conceived plastered on his face, and he bit his bottom lip coyly before sighing again.

"I am not staring at you like that," I defended.

"Oh, you so are," he insisted, sitting in his normal position and blue eyes focusing on me suspiciously.

I scoffed and focused on my plate. "I've already told you--I'm just in a good mood."

"Nope, just admit it, Wilson--you're in love with me."

"Yes, House. I'm in love with you." I had meant to make it sound sarcastic, but it came off as serious. It was the truth, anyway. My heart double-hit in my chest, and our eyes met.

"'Bout damn time you admitted it, 'cause this tension was starting to drive me crazy. Pass the ketchup," he said with a light ease that let me know I'd gotten away with it.

I handed him the bottle and he started smacking the end of it, ketchup remaining inside the glass bottle stubbornly. After about five thwacks, he stared at it in annoyance, then tipped it upside down and started shaking it again. I had fries and House didn't--I knew why he needed ketchup, and it wasn't for his food, but mine. He kept hitting the end of it, face scrunching up in frustration with each hit.

Finally, a long, thin stream of ketchup blobbed onto his plate, and he nodded once to himself. He set the bottle of ketchup aside, then took one of my fries and dipped it, ignoring the roll he'd just stolen less than a minute ago.

"You're doing it again," he told me, eyebrows raised.

"I'm doing it to annoy you," I told him, smiling thinly in his direction.

"Who says it's annoying?" he retorted, although it must've been bothering him if he kept mentioning it. He took a messy bite out of his roll, then pointed at me, still chewing. "You know, if it had been you staring at me with those eyes instead of Cameron a few years back, I might not still be single."

"Speaking of Cameron, how is she?"

"Bursting with good will and sugar, as usual. Why? Set your sights on her for the fourth Mrs. Wilson? I should let you know that her and Chase are lookin' pretty serious. Probably not a good idea to put the moves on her right now."

Chase and Cameron were still working at our hospital. I smiled again, then focused on my plate so that he wouldn't see it. "That's good."

"Someone else's relationshippy bliss makes you grin, too? What the hell have you been smoking?"

"I told you, I'm just--"

"--in a good mood, yeah, yeah," he finished for me, taking another bite out of the roll. He chewed quickly and swallowed, then stole one of my fries and pointed at me with it. "So, what's causing it? An obscene amount of ecstasy? Medicinal weed? Dying, yet still somewhat attractive, cancer patient offering you a place to hang your penis?"

"Oh, nothing but the pleasure of your company."

He covered his mouth and faux-yawned. "Oh, sorry about that. I started dozing off. Must be this after-school special holiday mushiness rotting my brain."

I chuckled and shook my head, then took a sip of my iced tea.

"I gotta piss. I'll be back in a second," he said, then pushed his way out of the booth and started limping towards the bathroom, cane ticking against the floor.

I smiled at my plate, and realized how much of an idiot I'd been for ever thinking our lives would've been better without the other.

"James," I heard someone say, and I didn't recognize the voice. My name was pretty common, but I looked up anyway out of habit, and saw Noel, leaning against the booth House had just vacated. I hadn't heard her walk up, and I hadn't seen her until that very moment. It was like she'd appeared out of nowhere.

She looked the same--ringlets, bright blue eyes, fair skin and a very youthful face, with a small, but soft, frame and wearing a coy smile. It really wasn't a surprise that I hadn't recognized her voice--the brief conversation I'd had with her had happened a week ago . . . Although, technically, I suppose I'd talked her just a few hours ago in this reality.

"Uh, Noel," I greeted, blinking in confusion. "How did--I mean, I didn't expect to see you here."

Without asking, she slid into the booth across from mine. "Made up with your friend, I see." She had a very ominous tone in her voice, and her eyes sparkled.

"Uh, yeah, well . . . Yes, actually. How did--" I shut my mouth, realizing that I'd never once admitted out-loud that I had been in an alternate reality, except an hour ago when I'd been sarcastic with the other House. It was like saying it verbally would make me crazy. Thinking it was one thing, but saying it not only aloud, but to another person, was somehow . . . difficult.

She raised a pale eyebrow. "How did I what?" she pressed on.

"You know what."

"Order cranberry juice?" she offered innocently, but I saw the brief quirk on the side of her mouth. She may have fooled me the first time, but being friends with House made it substantially easier to tell when someone was lying.

"You know what I'm talking about. How old are you anyway?"

"Well, that depends."

I furrowed my eyebrows. "What does that mean?"

"If you want to believe you just had a vivid dream, then I'm twenty-one."

I cleared my throat and shifted awkwardly in the booth, the vinyl crackling underneath. "And, uh . . . If I believe that something, er, _different_ happened . . ."

A smile slowly crept across her face. "Then I'm quite a bit older than that."

I leaned forward and looked around to make sure no one could overhear our conversation. "So . . . It happened, then? You . . . You, uh, granted my wish?" Both of her eyebrows raised halfway up her forehead. "Wow. That sounded much dumber out loud than it did in my head."

"Incredibly so, since I'm not a genie."

I blinked at her, then shook my head. "Right. So . . . What was that? What happened?"

"You said you thought your lives would be much better if the two of you had never become friends," she reminded, and the finality of the tone she used made it sound like the end of the conversation--as if that explained everything.

"And . . ." I urged, needing to hear more.

"So I showed you. Consider it my Hanukkah gift."

I rubbed the back of my neck, still a little confused. "You showed me. How did--I mean, it's not--I don't understand _how_ you even . . . did what you did."

"You're not meant to. I'm just following up, really. So? Were you better off?"

I shook my head, feeling a slight watery burning in my eyes. I swallowed the lump in my throat. "Neither of us . . . We weren't . . . we weren't better off," I finally said, feeling even more like an idiot for ever considering that our lives would've been better.

"Good, because I don't take refunds."

"And . . . The other, um, reality?"

"I don't know. I didn't see anything; I know nothing about how it ended up. I don't know if it keeps going or stops existing. That's not my department."

"There are _departments_ for this sort of thing?"

She raised an eyebrow at me. "It's a figure of speech."

I shifted on my seat a bit uncomfortably, then ran my hands through my hair. "So . . . Will you be . . ." I gestured vaguely, not quite knowing how to put this, and finally I just sighed. ". . . earning your wings, perhaps?" I asked hesitantly.

"No," she answered with a quiet chuckle. "No, I just . . . do this from time to time." She got out of the booth and smoothed down her top, then she met my eyes. "Everybody deserves a gift, James. Even if they don't open it." She walked towards me and placed her hand on my shoulder, squeezing softly. "Just ask him, okay?"

I looked up at her and nodded, having really no idea what else there was to do. She kept her hand on my shoulder for a moment longer, and I stared into her eyes--for the first time, I saw the depths there. For someone who looked around sixteen, yet passed herself off as twenty-one, she had eyes that seemed far older.

She walked away and I watched her leave the diner. I looked through the windows to see her meet up with a group of other girls who looked similar to her--pale skin, ringletted hair (brown, red, blonde, black--all different shades, but all curly) and even the small, but soft, frames. They all looked like those girls on those Christmas cards--the chubby cherubs--but all grown up. They were all grouped together, laughing and talking, and the streetlamps covered them in an almost ethereal glow.

"What are you looking at?" House asked and I jumped, turning to see him approaching the booth.

"I'm sorry?" I asked, watching him slide across the vinyl seat, it crinkling and squeaking underneath his weight.

"You were staring at something. What?"

"Oh, just . . ." I looked back out the window, but all the girls were gone. I furrowed my eyebrows and tried to see if I could see their retreating backs or a car driving off, but there was absolutely nothing to suggest they'd ever been there at all. "I was just lost in thought," I finished lamely, then turned back to face him.

"Unfamiliar territory?" he replied, and I smiled--it wasn't the first time he'd said it; in fact, it was a common exchange between us.

Common. Routine. Exactly the same as it had been for the past fifteen years--it was just another reminder of where I was. Our eyes met, and I knew I was staring at him in that way again, but he didn't say anything. In fact, he smiled softly at me--so slight he probably thought I couldn't see it.

He loved me. I knew it then--I just hadn't seen the signs before. I hadn't known what to look for until then.

"You're doing it again," he told me.

"I know."

He tilted his head to the side and narrowed his eyes in that way he did whenever he was trying to figure out a puzzle. He knew something was different, and he was piecing it together. It wouldn't be long until he realized I was hitting on him--hell, it wouldn't be long until he figured out I was in love with him, if he didn't know already.

"Mind if I ask you something?" I asked, before I could give the game away too soon.

He looked over my face, and then his Adam's apple bobbed. After a long second, he nodded. "Go for it," he allowed, and he leaned forward slightly; expectantly.

"Why didn't you open my present?" I finally asked. I'd asked before, but in a joking, only slightly serious way--this time, I wanted to make sure he knew I meant it.

He slumped, disappointed. "I already told you--I had no way of knowing there'd be an expensive book inside."

"That's why you're supposed to open it. So that you _do_ know."

"You've never wrapped my presents before. So why'd you do it this time?"

I sighed. "There you are--deflecting again. Just tell me."

"Answer my question, and maybe I will," he replied smoothly, stealing another one of my fries.

"I asked first."

"Columbus discovered America second, and looks who gets all the credit anyway."

I scoffed and shook my head--honestly, I hadn't heard that response since I'd been in sixth grade. Leave it to House to act like a child. I sighed in defeat. "All right. I was busy with Amber, and I knew you'd notice me trying to cut our time short to go on my date with her, and so I couldn't just give it to you. So I wrapped it up and gave you a note."

He studied me for a moment, then nodded. He looked at his plate instead of at me, and started doodling in the ketchup with his fry. He cleared his throat awkwardly, then shifted in his spot, as if circulating the blood flow in his leg although I knew it was just a gesture made out of the fact he felt uncomfortable with the situation. "You said it reminded you of me," he said quietly.

"I did," I urged.

He looked back at me, but only for a second, before he stared at his food again. "Didn't want to know what it was," he admitted shamefully, like he had admitted to a crime.

It took me a second to catch on, and then it clicked. I felt my heart lower into my stomach, and I almost felt guilty. It hadn't even occurred to me what that note implied. I'd just scrawled it down because, well, I hadn't been looking for his gift and I just saw it, and it felt so _perfect_ I had to buy it for him. What if I'd bought some sort of prank, or a book about a jerk--_A Christmas Carol,_ or some sort of funny novel about how to make yourself into an asshole. House, although he had a large ego, also had a huge dent in his self-esteem (even if he tried to hide it.)

"As long as you didn't open it, it could've been anything," I whispered, and he nodded. He was afraid of how I perceived him--anybody else could've bought him something with the exact same note, and he wouldn't have given a damn. But to look inside my head and see how I thought of him was frightening. That was why the other House had opened the gift--he had nothing to lose, and even though he'd known me for fifteen years, I'd given every appearance of hating him, so it wasn't like I could've made him think I thought any less of him than I already did.

At first glance, House and I were so different nobody could understand why we got along so well. We were just two different halves to the same whole, though--anything I lacked, he made up for, and vice versa. But really, we were the same. I refused to open my divorce papers although I knew what they were, and he didn't open my present in fear for what it could be. No matter what we did, the truth would still be fact, but as long as we didn't see it we could pretend.

"I think the world of you, House," I admitted quietly, halfway hoping he wouldn't hear me and mock me for being sentimental.

He was still staring at his plate, but I saw the full-on smile he was trying to hide from me. He probably thought he had succeeded. By the time he looked back at me the smile was gone. "Too bad you can't wrap that up and smack a bow on it," he shrugged off, although I had pretty much just admitted to loving him.

"Alas," I sighed, smirking at him.

He smirked back, and returned to his food with enthusiasm.

* * *

"You coming up?" House asked when I parked the car in front of the curb, breaking the comfortable silence. Note: comfortable. Natural. At ease.

God, I loved being home.

Every year, he asked if I was going to stay at his place after the post-Christmas dinner. Every year, I said yes. There were times when we actually spent Christmas day together, eating takeout, but even on those days, I drove him to that same diner after midnight and every year, I drove him home, just for him to ask the same question and get the same answer. In fact, the only time we'd skipped our tradition was when he'd OD'd, and I'd betrayed him to Tritter. Even last year, I'd taken him to the diner--I'd barely finished up my date with Amber, but I'd still managed to make it.

"I have a change of clothes still here, right?" I asked, knowing the answer.

"Yup."

I nodded. "Of course," I told him. We got out of the car and shut the door at the exact same time, and I smiled to myself because of it.

We walked together at the same pace, our elbows pressed together--they didn't bump or knock; they were just together, as if glued. That was different than normal, but I couldn't be sure if I was forcing it or he was. Either way, we were both aware of it, and we didn't push away.

In the other reality, House had always been the one to instigate the flirting. Thinking on it now, maybe he'd thought I'd started it with buying him lunch (I couldn't say anything about what it was like before I got there) but after that, it was always him. Even here, he'd always been the one to ask if I was coming over, or if we were going out to eat. He'd started the friendship; he'd been the one to keep it going. He'd clung and called in the middle of the night, sitting beside me and making the most random, obnoxious, and controversial topics just so that I'd have to respond; I had just allowed it to happen, and when he'd gotten to his most annoying, obnoxious self, I'd stubbornly stuck through it because I knew that no matter how horrible it got, it more than made up for it when we drank beer together and made up our own dialogue to whatever show he was obsessing over at the moment.

When he opened the door and stepped into his apartment, it hit me--the reason why the other me hadn't become friends with him. House had always been the one to keep it going, and I'd always been the one tagging along. I was stubborn here, so I had to assume I'd been stubborn there. Watching him walk a few paces in front of me, swaying with the movement of his cane, it suddenly made sense--I don't know how or why it did, but it did.

The other me had liked him, but refused to allow it to move into friendship. He'd never given it a chance; never allowed himself to see why it was worth laughing at his jokes, and had stubbornly refused to become the person who tagged along and merely 'dealt' with his crap. House had probably tried his hardest to get his attention, and the other me had purposely ignored him. Seeing as House hadn't bailed him out, he'd had no reason to believe he was capable of human emotion; no reason to believe he was worth the trouble.

House had been the instigator, and the one thing holding us together. He had always made the first move.

I shut the door behind me and started walking forward, the distance between us closing.

"You know where the blankets are," he said, looking over his shoulder to glance at me, and I didn't stop walking until my mouth was on his.

He froze, a bit like when I'd hugged him in the very same spot we were standing in at the moment, and I wondered if I'd pushed too far too quickly.

Then he wrapped an arm around my waist and forced us together tighter, and sucked in, yanking breath out of my lungs and making my head swoon. His tongue slipped past my teeth suddenly, devouring my mouth, and everything exploded. Fireworks rang in my head, nerves along my skin sparked with electricity, and I whimpered.

This felt like the first kiss between us, and I realized it really was. The memories zooming through my head were the same as his, and I could taste the difference. I could feel it in the way his tongue brushed mine, or how he held me to him possessively. I could hear it in the way he gasped and moaned into my mouth. Before, he was tentative and unsure; I was the one kissing him roughly and devouring him, and now we were both dominant--we weren't taking roles, or trying to fit ourselves into a puzzle and make sense out of nothing.

The tilt of our heads was sure and natural and smooth, yet rough and passionate at the same time, and I couldn't believe it had taken me so damn long to see that he felt the same way. I'd been so afraid and I hadn't realized he would've been too. He was still human, after all, no matter how much he liked to think otherwise--and I guess a part of me had started to believe it too; started to believe that nothing scared him.

Our teeth knocked together and we took turns gasping, sucking the other's breath out of our lungs so that we were breathless, and the scratching of his beard on my skin didn't feel uncomfortable or harsh; it felt right. The wet slide of our lips burned into my chest and mind and I couldn't stop wanting more; needing more. Fifteen years of sharing laughter and food and touching and staring, and it all led to this--some might say that it was a waste of potential; now, though, I believed it wasn't a waste at all, but merely foreplay. Those memories made us into what we were, and I couldn't believe I'd even _thought_ about sacrificing them to make my life better; to make _his _life better.

He pulled his head away and we pressed our brows together, still breathing heavily, and I wondered if the world was still spinning around him as crazily as it was for me. The kiss he gave me a second later was brief and barely there, and for some reason it felt more intimate than the other kiss had.

He pulled his forehead away from mine suddenly, and our chests were no longer touching, although his arm was still around my waist. "Oh, wait, I forgot," he said, eyes bright with inspiration.

"What?" I asked, curious.

"All my extra blankets disappeared."

I snorted back a chuckle. "Did they?"

He nodded sombrely, his thumb tracing circles on my lower back. "Yup. Don't know what happened--they just up and left, apparently. Guess you'll just have to share mine until we find them."

I let out a long, faux-disappointed sigh. "Damn. And I was starting to grow partial to that couch."

"Well, blankets are fickle. They never stay where you tell them to."

His chest was against mine, and we were sort of shuffling towards his bedroom, but not in any real hurry. His eyes searched my face again, then he leaned forward. I met his mouth in the middle, and smiled against him when I felt his hand slide over my rear sneakily; as if he thought he'd be able to do it without my notice.

"And your pillows?" I inquired helpfully.

"I've got enough for an entire army."

"Hopefully without the actual army. I don't think your bed is large enough to fit that many people," I told him wisely, brushing my lips across his.

"Ruin all my fun, why don't you?" he whined, and I wondered if we were dancing.

I shrugged. "You know, I've been told that my torso works pretty well as a pillow. We could, purely for scientific purposes, attempt to prove or disprove that theory."

He raised his eyebrows and placed his other hand on my hip. Not only we were making our way to his room slowly, we were moving in a slow circle. Apparently, I was right--we were dancing. How very surreptitious of him. I put my hands on his hips too, and shifted my weight on my other foot as a disguise to step closer.

"That may take some serious testing. You sure you can handle that?" he asked, his tone unsure and almost unsteady. He was asking me if I really wanted to date him.

I just nodded, and kissed him again--long enough to let him know I was serious, but short enough that we wouldn't get sidetracked and have to take a detour up against the nearest wall.

He hummed and barely flicked his tongue against my bottom lip, then nipped at it before pulling away. "Good, because I've got a few other theories I'd like to test out as well," he told me.

I smiled. "Sounds promising."

* * *

A/N--If possible, I'll upload the final chapter tomorrow. If not, I will as soon as I can.


	17. Chapter 17

Chapter Seventeen

It wasn't déjà vu--it had happened before, just not for real.

Waking to the alarm on my watch and finding myself next to House--that had happened yesterday. This time, however, I'd known I would wake there. He hadn't dragged me there in the middle of the night, but we'd both climbed into his bed and necked and groped lightly and made out until we'd practically passed out, wrapped around each other like absurd, half-clothed pretzels. We'd laughed at each other; him at my eagerness, and me at his awkward comments thrown out in the middle of nowhere; as if I really cared to know that my ears weren't perfectly symmetrical with each other, or that the skin on my left collarbone tasted slightly different than the skin covering my right. He joked about the weird choking, pitiful moan I'd made when he'd scraped his teeth across the side of my throat, and I pretended like I didn't notice he giggled quietly whenever my fingers ghosted over his sides, right above his hipbones. I couldn't have been awake with him in his bed longer than a half-hour, but to me, it had seemed like an eternity.

I turned off the alarm on my watch and pulled my arm free carefully. Something I'd learned somewhere in one of my marriages was how to pull my arm free without making too much noise, and also how to curl up and tangle my limbs with someone without have my limbs fall asleep and threaten to explode into pins and needles and awkward not-pain.

I got out of bed as quietly as possible, listening to the rhythm of House's breath, and gently covered him again with the blankets that I'd knocked loose when getting out. I barely touched his face and almost kissed his forehead, then my Inner House waved his cane at me and mocked me for that, so I pulled away and left the room, standing in the doorframe for a second that could've been ages to look at him sleeping.

When I took my shower, I used the shampoo that only existed in this reality--shampoo that I was partial to, and only I used. Shampoo and conditioner I knew he bought specifically for me for the nights I stayed over and needed to shower in the morning. One of the many ways he showed he cared about me without ever actually having to say it.

While I soaped myself down, I checked my inner thighs for cutting scars and ran my fingers along my chest for the same reason. I was free of any self-injurious scars and felt familiar skin underneath my prune-y fingertips. As I dried myself off I looked in the mirror, checking my gums and lips for the slight cracks and redness that had existed in the other reality. My face was fuller, and yes, I did have some extra weight here that I could've done without, but I didn't have as many wrinkles around my mouth and eyes.

My pyjamas had disappeared from the bathroom floor, and my work clothes were folded carefully on the back of the toilet, and I smiled to myself. I towel-dried my hair, and wondered if House was eating a bowl of cereal, or if he was waiting for me to go cook something, or if he had gone right back to bed. Normally I would've cooked something for on the road, but eating at two in the morning had ruined my appetite for breakfast, since I was on a full stomach and I was getting to the age where I couldn't eat idly--not unless I wanted heartburn, indigestion, or even more unsightly love handles.

I dressed quietly and brushed my teeth, washing my mouth free of late-night (or early-morning) dinners and a taste that was just purely Greg House. Well, that, and early-morning breath that was never pleasant.

I could've gone out to my car and grabbed my hair-dryer, but decided against it in favour of not bothering House with the noise. I was tired, anyway, due to me staying up later than normal, and I was basically too lazy to go out, get it, plug it in, and then use it. I was probably going to be sucking down coffee like no other all day just to stay awake.

I stepped out of the bathroom to see House sitting on the couch, still in his pyjamas, still ruffled, and still staring at a muted television tiredly, his spoon scraping against a bowl while he stuffed his mouth with cereal. I leaned against the doorframe and watched him eat. He looked so . . . childlike; peaceful and content. As if nothing in the world could harm him, and although the very thought of that was stupid, I could feel it, too.

He looked at me and his eyes roved over my body casually. "Ugh, your tie sucks."

"You're the one who picked it out."

"I know how your taste is, so I picked the ugliest one I could find."

"How very thoughtful of you."

Some milk dripped down his chin and he wiped it away with the back of his hand, then stuffed another spoonful into his mouth, chewing obnoxiously. "Wanthoom ugly gars?" he garbled unintelligibly, eyes wide like a child's.

"I'm not fluent in whatever language you're speaking."

He rolled his eyes and swallowed. "God, didn't you ever talk with your mouth full?"

"Well, my mother always told me that was impolite, so . . ." I told him, pushing myself off of the doorframe.

He rolled his eyes. "You didn't seem to mind all that much last night when I was shoving my tongue down your throat."

"That was hardly carrying on a conversation," I pointed out as I walked over to the closet where I kept my coat.

"You said my name and issued commands. It's a conversation."

"All right, fine. Doesn't change the fact I still didn't understand what you said." I pulled out my coat and put it on, watching him place his bowl on the coffee table.

"I asked if you wanted some Lucky Charms." He got off the couch and stretched his arms over his head, his back popping.

I shook my head. "I'm just going to grab some coffee on my way to work. Are you going? I could wait until you get dressed if you want a ride."

"Don't need clothes for the type of ride I want," he replied with an impish grin, and I chuckled at him. "Nah, I'm just gonna finish eating my cereal and then go back to bed."

"I'll see you around noon, then."

As in the other universe, he limped towards my briefcase before I could even plan on grabbing it, and we met at the door. "Wouldn't want you to forget this," he said, handing it over--just as the other him had. I took it from him, our fingers brushing, and he stared at me expectantly.

Everything was the same--the pacing of his words, the look in his eyes, the situation . . . He _wanted_ me to kiss him goodbye. He'd _planned_ on meeting me at the door, planned on having our fingers brush together, and what had I done? I'd frozen, so caught up in what I should or shouldn't do that I'd missed such an obvious sign.

Realizing what he'd been trying to do, I laughed. Not loudly or obnoxiously, just briefly. His face fell, but then I kissed him--nothing exciting, but gentler than I'd intended.

"Oh my God," he said, eyes wide with fear and mouth slightly open.

"What?" I asked, and I sounded as panicky as I felt.

"I'm the fourth Mrs. Wilson," he whined, then dropped his forehead to my shoulder. His hand was at my hip. I remembered when he'd been with Stacy, and realized he'd always been touching her--a careful flick of her hair, or a gentle touch on her lower back--just tiny little moments, as if reassuring himself she was there. I smiled when I realized he'd been doing that with me for years--not as intimately, perhaps, but there just the same.

"There, there," I said comfortingly and patting him on the back as if I'd just given him some horrible news.

"It's terminal," he groaned into my collarbone, and I smoothed my palm across his back, counting the ribs I brushed as I did so.

"I'm afraid so."

He shrugged, holding onto my hip just a fraction tighter. "There are worse things," he admitted, then pulled away from my shoulder so that we could look at one another.

"Such as?"

"Being the second Mr. Cameron."

"Well, I'll warn Chase immediately."

"Do it when Cameron's there, and I'll sit on the sidelines with popcorn."

"I'll pencil it into my schedule."

"They'll probably just kiss and make up," he relented with a sad sigh, then he tilted his head. "Why did it take us so long to get here?" he added, as if those two sentences had the same thought--the same meaning. As if they weren't totally unrelated--and with the way House's mind worked, thoughts firing to one another at rapid speed, maybe they did connect.

"I didn't think you reciprocated," I told him, and I had a feeling that may have been the reason he hadn't done more, too.

"And what? Something about last night--or, well, this morning--gave the game away?"

I shook my head. "No. I just finally saw what you'd been trying to show me."

"You should see an ophthalmologist because you _really_ need to get your eyes checked. It also explains your taste in ties. Or lack thereof."

Why did he have such an obsession with my ties? Honestly, even in the other reality he wouldn't shut up about them. I pulled my lips back tight, trying to stop myself from smiling, but I was sure I'd failed. He finally let go of my hip and he searched my face quickly.

He clapped my shoulder playfully, but his palm stayed on my arm for a fraction of a second longer then necessary, and a bit softer than needed. "See ya at work," he said.

He smacked my ass on the way out the door.

* * *

"_I took care of it," came a random voice, filling the cell and his mind so loudly it couldn't have been his imagination, but Wilson considered the fact it was anyway._

_He lifted his face away from his hands and stared at the stranger, and recognized him. He'd seen him here and there for the past few days; he stuck out because he was awash in a sea of suits and ties, and the man before him was wearing ratty, old jeans and a worn rock tee. That wasn't what he was thinking about, though. He was busy remembering the man pointing and laughing at him as the police pushed him into the backseat of the car, cuffed unnecessarily seeing as he was apologizing and blushing from embarrassment. He wouldn't have fled or resisted arrest, but still, he supposed they were just doing their jobs._

"_I'm sorry?" he said, feeling like perhaps he'd misunderstood, or that the man wasn't really talking to him despite the fact he was alone in his cell._

"_I took care of it," he repeated louder, standing on the other side of the bars casually, with his blue eyes wide and bright._

"_Took care of what?" he asked tentatively, standing up from his cot, not allowing his mind to go anywhere. Getting his hopes up just to have them crash down again would be too much for him to handle at the moment._

"_Uh, your bail?" he replied, as if it were obvious._

_Wilson approached the bars cautiously, the man's face becoming clearer in the dim lighting now that he was closer. His vision was still somewhat blurred from half-crying earlier and pressing his hands to his lids to prevent himself from full-out sobbing, but after he blinked the fogginess subsided. "Is this a joke?"_

"_No, a joke would be if I showed up in a clown suit and made an inappropriate comment about soap."_

_Wilson fidgeted, looking the man over, as if trying to gauge the situation. Was he serious? Why would a man bail out a complete stranger--especially one that had thrown quite an immature fit and broken an antique mirror because of it?_

_Before Wilson could continue a conversation, the chubby guard whose accent was so thick he couldn't understand what he was saying showed up, keys to the cell jingling. What happened next went by so fast he worried it was a dream--he was being led away from his cell, being handed his effects, being led outside of the police station, the man commenting on everything and nothing all at the same time, and yet Wilson couldn't remember a word of what he said, at rapid-fire pace. It wasn't real--it couldn't have been happening--and yet it was. He knew it was. He was grateful--_beyond_ grateful--but confused at the same time._

_When the doors shut behind them, the sound tearing Wilson out of whatever trance-like state he'd been in, allowing himself to be pulled along like a child being dragged through a department store, he turned towards the stranger, who was eyeing the night like a kid eyeing the toys on display._

_The reality of the situation hit him suddenly--the reality that, yes, a total stranger really had just bailed him out of jail, saving him from having to call his parents and explain the charges. It wasn't just that, either, though--he had shown him an extreme amount of kindness when everything had been going wrong--his wife was leaving him, his friend wanted nothing to do with him out of guilt, he had no money and he was so alone . . ._

"_Thank you; thank you so much. I can--I mean, just--I can't tell you how much this means to me."_

"_I'm sure it means boatloads," he dismissed with a hand-wave and an eye-roll._

_Wilson had no idea why he was waving away his gratitude, but nodded in agreement. "It really, really does. I can't even begin to tell you how much it means to me, uh . . ." He tried to recall him ever throwing out a name, but when he realized he hadn't, he just settled with; "sir, it really means--"_

"_Ugh, don't call me that," he insisted, looking as if he'd just downed a glass of sour milk. For whatever reason, being called 'sir' really annoyed him, even though he had no idea what else to call him._

"_I'm sorry, uh . . . What would you prefer I call you?"_

"_I think 'God' has a nice ring to it. So anyway, you were saying something about being forever in my debt for my irrational act of kindness?"_

_Wilson smiled and snorted back a chuckle. "Yes, of course. But, really, if there's anything I can do--anything at all--"_

"_How much cash you got?" he asked, face serious._

_Wilson blinked. He wasn't used to people actually admitting to wanting something in return for kindness. Every time he offered to return a favour, it was always a polite head-shaking and a 'oh, no, I'm fine, don't worry about it' even if, on the inside, it was an entirely different matter. "Oh, um--I don't know; eighteen dollars, maybe? I'm not sure--if you could give me a number to reach you, I could pay you back--"_

"_I'm a doctor; I can afford bailing you out and scheduling an arraignment," he told him. Wilson didn't know what shocked him more; that he was a doctor, that he either had or was going to schedule his arraignment, or that he apparently hadn't intended to make him pay him back. "I was planning on getting shit-faced and _you_ are coming with me."_

"_I'm . . . paying for the alcohol? That's it?"_

"_And lunch, the next time you come into some money." He looked upward at the sky for a minute. "Well, how many lunches would repay a bail? You might have to pay for more than one."_

"_Okay, sure, I--you're a doctor?"_

"_Only on Mondays," he responded casually, then grabbed Wilson's arm and started half-dragging, half-leading him down the sidewalk, his long legs striding with purpose. Wilson was still confused; everything was moving so quickly--the pace of the stranger's walk, getting drinks, being bailed out for no reason that he could see--that he would've sworn he'd passed out on the cot and lost himself to wonderful, but odd, dream, were it not so real._

"_Hold on," he said a few seconds later, and pulled his arm free of the strong grasp. The man turned towards him, tapping his foot impatiently and eyes zeroed in on his face. It was going too quickly--everything about the man before him screamed haste and now, now, now and impatience--but he needed to stop. If only for a moment._

"_Well?" the man urged a second later--a second too long for his tastes, apparently._

_Wilson could have been offended by the man's edginess, or at least rankled, but he wasn't. Envious at his indifference maybe, grateful at the fact he'd done something incredibly kind, and more than a little confused, but upset? No. _

"_Why'd you bail me out?" he asked._

"_What else was I going to do with all that extra cash I had just lying around? Waste it on some blow I can get anywhere I want? Besides, I'm bored, and I need a drinking buddy. We done talking, or should we examine our feelings, go back to my place, watch _Steel Magnolias,_ and cry?"_

_Wilson laughed, if only because that was the exact thing his wife would've done. It was funny, even if it really shouldn't have been--even if he had no reason to laugh, he did anyway. The man seemed intrigued by his random laughter, but he kept it up anyway._

"_I'd rather we not," he finally replied, still smiling. He stuck out his hand cordially. "I'm James."_

_The man stared at his hand as if it surprised him; as if he'd never been confronted with such a situation. With a shrug he shook his hand. "House," he introduced._

"_House?" he repeated._

_He shrugged. "My parents were hippies."_

_With that, House grabbed Wilson's tie and tugged, hurrying the both of them down the sidewalk, apparently with every intention of continuing this sudden, odd adventure (and getting shit-faced drunk.) His purposeful pace made it difficult to follow, even though he was practically being dragged, the silk digging uncomfortably into his neck, but he found that (given the fact the man had just saved him) he really didn't mind._

_He would learn to catch up._

* * *

A/N--[wipes away tear] It's finished! I know I didn't do anything with the AU, but I thought it best to leave "is it an AU still or did it stop existing?" up to you. I also didn't anticpate so much interest in AlternaWilson coming home and what happens after. Jonic Recheio and my father suggest that I allow you guys to either a) play in the AU, as long as you stick to the "canon" of my story, b) ask me for a sequel or c) both.

And now, my father would like to say something:

I asked her for a Thirteen/Cuddy PWP but she denied. Her loyalties lie with Hilson. Damn you all for that. :D JK. No but really. Thirteen/Cuddy would be awesome.


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